As if this merry month of May

Should never have an ending.

O could I utter thoughts that rise,
O could I sing the tender

Softness of the summer skies,

In all their virgin splendor!

O crescent Moon, like pearlèd bark
To ferry souls to glory;

O silent deepening of the dark
O'er vale and promontory!

Alas, that I should live, and be
A churl in soul, while slowly

God makes the fearful eve, and breathes
A calm through hearts unholy!

Till all the sweet sensations

Grew into utter pain,

And I was fain to wander

Sadly home again.

There have been brotherhoods in song,

And human friendships ever true;

There have been lovers unto death,
Yes, and right many too.

But never in the march of time,

And never in all mortal knowing,

From history or nobler rhyme,

Hath there been such a constant flowing:

One from mountains far away,

One from glades of emerald shining,

Flowing, flowing evermore

For a delicate combining.

If upon a summer's day,

When the air is blue and bracing, You for Merkland take your way,

Sweet uneasy fancies chasing;

You may see the famous grove —

If not famous, then most surely

Ripe for fame, which is but love —

Where they mingle most demurely.

Not in song and babbling play

Which no poet could unravel;

But in tender, simple way,

On a bed of golden gravel.

Where I sit I see them now,

Bothlin with her endless winding

From a mountain's purple brow,

Sacred contemplation finding;

In still nooks of shady rest,

Gleaming greenly 'neath the holly:

Youth, she says, is often blest

With a little melancholy.

Luggie from the orient fields

Wiser is, yet hath a beauty,

Which the snowy conscience yields

To the softened face of duty.