The beeches brighten for young May,
And young grass shines along her way;
Joy bares to her his sunny head,
Leaned over brook and blossom-bed;
The smell of Spring fills all the air,
And wooing birds make music there.
There 's naught of sound or sight to grieve,
From quiring morn to quiet eve;
Only the shadow thought will cast,—
This loveliness, it cannot last.
The merry field, the ringing bough,
Will silent be as voiceful now;
Chill, warning winds will hither roam,
The Summer's children hasten home;
That blue solicitude of sky
Bent over beauty doomed to die,
Ere long will, pitying, witness here,
The yielded glory of the year.