She sang a song of May for me,
Wherein once more I heard
The mirth of my glad infancy —
The orchard's earliest bird —
The joyous breeze among the trees
New-clad in leaf and bloom,
And there the happy honey-bees
In dewy gleam and gloom.
So purely, sweetly on the sense
Of heart and spirit fell
Her song of Spring, its influence —
Still irresistible,—
Commands me here — with eyes ablur —
To mate her bright refrain.
Though I but shed a rhyme for her
As dim as Autumn rain.