27.03.2008, 21:43
To Dora Quillinan
Well, this is really like the poet's May,
The merry May of which we used to hear,
Big with the promise of the coming year!
The apple-trees their rosy bloom display,
The flowerets, many-hued, that line the way,
Long-soak'd with rain, and chill'd with whistling blast,
Look happy now, like maidens, that at last
Are to be wedded, after long delay.
Oh! that the joy, the fragance, and the bloom,
That bid all life and even poor man be glad,
might waft a breath of comfort to the room
Where she lies smitten, yet not wholly sad,
Waiting with frame immortal to be clad,
In patient expectation of her doom!
Well, this is really like the poet's May,
The merry May of which we used to hear,
Big with the promise of the coming year!
The apple-trees their rosy bloom display,
The flowerets, many-hued, that line the way,
Long-soak'd with rain, and chill'd with whistling blast,
Look happy now, like maidens, that at last
Are to be wedded, after long delay.
Oh! that the joy, the fragance, and the bloom,
That bid all life and even poor man be glad,
might waft a breath of comfort to the room
Where she lies smitten, yet not wholly sad,
Waiting with frame immortal to be clad,
In patient expectation of her doom!