My Queen Of May

The laughing garlanded May-time is here;
The glad laburnum whispers at the gate:
“She comes! She comes! I hear her step draw near,
My Queen of Beauty, Arbitress of Fate!”

The lilacs look at her—“She is more fair
Than the white moon, more proud than the strong sun;
Let him who seeks her royal grace beware,
To be unworthy were to be undone.”

One wild sweet rose, that dreams the May is June,
Blooms for her; and for her a mateless bird
Thrills the soft dusk with his entrancing tune,
Content if by her only he is heard.

A curious star climbs the far heaven to see
What She it is for whom the waiting night,
To music set, trembles in melody;
Then, by her beauty dazzled, flees from sight.

And I—what am I that my voice should reach
The gracious ear to which it would aspire?
She will not heed my faltering poor speech;
I have no spell to win what all desire.

Yet will I serve my stately Queen of May;
Yet will I hope, till Hope itself be spent.
Better to strive, though steep and long the way,
Than on some weaker heart to sink content.
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