Thou comest to the year,
And bringest all things beautiful and sweet;
Thy lovely miracles themselves repeat
In the green glory of the grass,
And peeping flowers that stay our lingering feet
With their soft eyes, blue like the sky and clear;
Thou bringest not, alas,
Our lily, our May-blossom, O New Year!
Thou bringest all things fair,
And bright, and gentle, but thou bring'st not her:
The May-birds warble, and May breezes stir
In the sweet-scented lilac boughs;
But our one May--our gentlest minister
Of gladness, with the beauty of her hair.
Her place in our still house
Is empty,--and the world is bleak and bare.
May. by Kate Seymour Maclean