The lilac with its stars,
Small, shining like the spars
With which some sea-nymph decks her ocean-bowers—
Lilac, that seems the jewellry of flowers?
Where is the gelder-rose,
Wreathed as from Alpine snows?
Where is the lime-tree's bud of faint perfume?
Where is the hawthorn wealth, thine own peculiar bloom?
They do not meet thee now!
I see the barren bough;
The earth is melancholy as a grave—
I see the driving rain, I hear the bleak winds rave.
Is this the pilgrimage
Of Earth in her old age?
And is the shadow all things present wear
Cast on the circling beauty of the year?
Or is it but delay?
Are south winds on their way,
And songs and blossoms bringing May once more
The sunshine which rejoiced all hearts of yore?
Hope whispers of their birth—
Hope which upon our earth
Doth wander like an angel, at whose feet
Fresh flowers spring up to gladden and to greet.
How many now may see
Their likeness, May, in thee!
Mournful and spiritless, their spring is known
But by its measured time, and time alone;
They know there must be May within the year,
Else would they never dream that May was here.
May 9, 1832. L. E. L.
