Арчибальд Лампмен (Archibald Lampman)

In May

    Grief was my master yesternight;
        To-morrow I may grieve again;
        But now along the windy plain
          The clouds have taken flight.

    The sowers in the furrows go;
        The lusty river brimmeth on;
        The curtains from the hills are gone;
          The leaves are out; and lo,

    The silvery distance of the day,
        The light horizons, and between
        The glory of the perfect green,
          The tumult of the May.

    The bobolinks at noonday sing
        More softly than the softest flute,
        And lightlier than the lightest lute
          Their fairy tambours ring.

    The roads far off are towered with dust;
        The cherry-blooms are swept and thinned;
        In yonder swaying elms the wind
          Is charging gust on gust.

    But here there is no stir at all;
        The ministers of sun and shadow
        Horde all the perfumes of the meadow
          Behind a grassy wall.

    An infant rivulet wind-free
        Adown the guarded hollow sets,
        Over whose brink the violets
          Are nodding peacefully.

    From pool to pool it prattles by;
        The flashing swallows dip and pass,
        Above the tufted marish grass,
          And here at rest am I.

    I care not for the old distress,
        Nor if to-morrow bid me moan;
        To-day is mine, and I have known
          An hour of blessedness.

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