 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
337
AN OLD MAN'S SONG OF MAY.
Can it be that Spring is come?
So the Calendar doth say:
March has blustered off, I know,
And wild April soon mast go,
Then, O then it will be May!
So the Calendar doth say:
March has blustered off, I know,
And wild April soon mast go,
Then, O then it will be May!
'Twas a merry month to me
Long ago, when I was young.
I have dreams of childish hours,
In the meadows picking flowers,
And of songs the robins sung.
Long ago, when I was young.
I have dreams of childish hours,
In the meadows picking flowers,
And of songs the robins sung.
Does the robin still remain?
One, I mean, that loves and grieves?
And—supposing that I could
Join the Children in the Wood,
Would it cover me with leaves?
One, I mean, that loves and grieves?
And—supposing that I could
Join the Children in the Wood,
Would it cover me with leaves?
Flowers, I see, can still be bought,
And who will may buy, not I:
I want more than these poor flowers,
I demand the dews, the showers,
Wind, and trees, and summer sky.
And who will may buy, not I:
I want more than these poor flowers,
I demand the dews, the showers,
Wind, and trees, and summer sky.
Why not say, you poor old man,
You demand what is no more?
Were it May, twice over May,
You would still be sad to-day,
For you are not as before.
You demand what is no more?
338
You would still be sad to-day,
For you are not as before.
May is only for the young,
Chill December suits you best:
Fallen leaves, not flowers, for you,
You have nothing left to do:
Make your bed, and take your rest.
Chill December suits you best:
Fallen leaves, not flowers, for you,
You have nothing left to do:
Make your bed, and take your rest.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |