May
The fragrances of May are on the air,
Our shy New England air, yet interblent
With breath of rosy orchards and with rare
Arbutus scent,
Sweet as the Orient.
The songs of May are on the dulcet air,
Blithe carols, trills, melodious mating calls.
These hidden brooks have tunes as debonair
As waterfalls
That silver Alpine walls.
Life, pulsing, poignant life is in the air.
The winter-wasted heart, that dared blaspheme
By weary apathy and bleak despair
The Joy Supreme
Re-blossoms into dream.
Our shy New England air, yet interblent
With breath of rosy orchards and with rare
Arbutus scent,
Sweet as the Orient.
The songs of May are on the dulcet air,
Blithe carols, trills, melodious mating calls.
These hidden brooks have tunes as debonair
As waterfalls
That silver Alpine walls.
Life, pulsing, poignant life is in the air.
The winter-wasted heart, that dared blaspheme
By weary apathy and bleak despair
The Joy Supreme
Re-blossoms into dream.
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