By Hamilton Aide
This is the joyous May,
Which poets in all times have sung aloud,
When the year slips his shroud,
And from the grave, to gladder life each day,
All Nature doth arise !
Earth’s flowers of myriad dyes
Unsheath their flaming glories to the sun,
With those the sky hath won—
The freckled moths and gorgeous butterflies.
Nothing more sleepeth—nothing is at rest—
The frozen stream fiows downward from the hill,
The Wild bird builds her nest,
And at the door of every heart unblest,
Love stands, and beckons with a sweet good-will.
I watched the happy boys,
This bright May-morning, on the cricket ground,
While children danced around
The May-pole, shouting with a merry noise.
I watched a youth to-day,
Who at a girl’s feet lay
In silence ; yet I read, without surprise,
In his mute passionate eyes,
The old, old story of the budding May !
Youth fades : but our own Spring we live again,
Seeing from Winter’s lap Earth’s budding flow’rs,—
Like sunshine after rain)
– Love, Hope, and Joy burst out. No clouds of pain
For God’s glad creatures darken May’s blue hours.
I cannot say with certainty that this poem was written about the New Forest, but I am taking the assumption that it was, as Aide was living in Lyndhurst at the time of publication.
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