 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
TO LITTLE MAY VINCENT.
My wee-bit, bonny, blue-eyed May.
Well fits the name we gave in play;
For Spring, with all her tears and smiles,
Her frolic frowns and wooing wiles,
Is just like thee—so fresh, so bright,
With breath of balm and eyes of light.
My treasure, May! my nestling dove!
My wild-flower, nursed by Hope and Love!
My sunlit gem! my morning star!
Oh! there is nothing near or far,
Of soft or beautiful or free,
That does not mind my heart of thee.
Yet all combined,—star, blossom, bird,
Bring to it no such joy divine,
As the first charily-utter'd word
That falters from those lips of thine.
Well fits the name we gave in play;
For Spring, with all her tears and smiles,
Her frolic frowns and wooing wiles,
Is just like thee—so fresh, so bright,
With breath of balm and eyes of light.
My treasure, May! my nestling dove!
My wild-flower, nursed by Hope and Love!
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Oh! there is nothing near or far,
Of soft or beautiful or free,
That does not mind my heart of thee.
Yet all combined,—star, blossom, bird,
Bring to it no such joy divine,
As the first charily-utter'd word
That falters from those lips of thine.
Twelve times the maiden-queen of night
Has donn'd her veil of silver light,
And walk'd the silent, heavenly plain,
Majestic mid her radiant train,
Since May first oped her playful eyes;
And yet she is not over-wise;
For even now she shouts with joy
When on the floor the sunshine plays,
And deems the spot a golden toy,
And creeps to lift its mocking rays.
Has donn'd her veil of silver light,
And walk'd the silent, heavenly plain,
Majestic mid her radiant train,
Since May first oped her playful eyes;
And yet she is not over-wise;
For even now she shouts with joy
When on the floor the sunshine plays,
And deems the spot a golden toy,
And creeps to lift its mocking rays.
Ah, May! be still a child in this,
Through life, amid its gloom and bliss:
Though clouds of care be all about,
Those eyes will find the sunshine out,
Then pass the shade with Hope's delight,
And stop to play where Joy is bright.
Through life, amid its gloom and bliss:
Though clouds of care be all about,
Those eyes will find the sunshine out,
Then pass the shade with Hope's delight,
And stop to play where Joy is bright.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |