The First of May.

The waters make a music low:
The river reeds
Are trembling to the tunes of long ago—
Dead days and deeds

Become alive again, as on
We float, and float,
Through shadows of the golden Summers gone,
And Springs remote.

Above our heads the trees bloom out
In white and red
Great blossoms, that make glad the air about;
And old suns shed

Their rays athwart them. Ah, the light
Is bright and fair!
No suns that shine upon us now are bright
As those suns were.

And, gazing down into the stream,
We see a face,
As sweet as buds that blossom in a dream,
Ere sorrows chase

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Fair dreams from men, and send in lieu
Sad thoughts. A wreath
Of blue-bells binds the head—a bluer blue
The eyes beneath.

This is our little Annie's face.
Our child-sweetheart
Whom long ago we lost in that dark place
Where all lives part.

Beside us, still, we see her stand,
Who is no more.
She walked with us through childhood, hand in hand,
But at the door

Of Youth departed from us. Fain
Were we that day
To go with her. Ah, sweetheart, come again,
This First of May!