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the may morning.
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Dancing in glee, yet whispering in awe,
Like bashful maidens at some gorgeous fête,
Graced by a monarch's presence; aged Oaks
Grow young again at their stout, loyal hearts;
The stately brotherhood of mountain Pines
Give forth a solemn greeting, like a band
Of stern old monks, in sombre vestments clad.
Like Ganymedè, the Magnolia stands,
Graceful and fair; his silver chalice lifts,
Brimmed with night's nectar, to the thirsty god.
The garden Lilac, rich in purple bloom,
Scatters her royal largess far and wide;
And the warm bosom of the opening Rose
Pants out its odorous sighs to the "sweet south,"
That soft-plumed, low-voiced rover from afar,
Whose wings are heavy with the perfume stolen
From the cleft hearts of his forsaken loves.
The Mignonette breathes tenderly and deep,
The pure home-fragrance of a humble heart;
And even the tiny Violet can make
Her little circle sweet as love; the Vine,
Swaying in mid-air to the frolic wind,
Rains scented blossoms on the clover tufts,
And cheerful daisies, lighting up the grass.
The Robin and the Oriole awake