Were it but May now, while
Our hearts are yearning,
How they would bound and smile,
The young blood burning!
Around the tedious dial
No slow hands turning.
Were it but May now!--say,
What joy to go,
Your hand in mine all day,
Where blossoms blow!
Your hand, more white than May,
May's flowers of snow.
Were it but May now!--think,
What wealth she has!
The bluet and wild-pink,
Wild flowers,--that mass
About the wood-brook's brink,--
And sassafras.
Nights, that the large stars strew,
Heaven on heaven rolled;
Nights, pearled with stars and dew,
Whose heavens hold
Aromas, and the new
Moon's curve of gold.
So mad, so wild is March!--
I long, oh, long
To see the redbud's torch
Flame far and strong;
Hear, on my vine-climbed porch,
The bluebird's song.
How slow the Hours creep,
Each with a crutch!--
Ah, could my spirit leap
Its bounds and touch
That day, no thing would keep--
Or matter much!
But now, with you away,
Time halts and crawls,
Feet clogged with winter clay,
That never falls,
While, distant still, that day
Of meeting calls.