MAY

The river sings through its twisted miles And the heaven above it smiles and smiles The pink blooms out on the apple trees The scent of the lilacs is on the breeze; Oh, how has it happened? And what does it mean? Who brightened the sunlight? Who coaxed out the green? May was painting a bush by the garden wall And she said in a whisper: “I did it all; I flushed the trees to their rosy hue I hung the banner clouds out in the blue; I worked not a wonder in this,” said she, ’Tis only the work that was willed to me.”