 | [Poems by Howells in] Poems of two friends |  |
111
THE DEATH OF MAY.
“O, I am weary!” sighed the languid May,
And so lay down, and on the breast of June
Her fair head pillowing, breathed away her life.
None knew that she was dying, and the stars
Shone bright and tearless from their far-off sky,
And kindled other stars in lake and river;
The south wind whispered lovingly to her
That slept so long; and lifted her bright hair,
And kissed her playfully, yet never dreamed
That May was dead! Earth felt not her deep loss,
But glad in presence of the lusty June,
Nor grieved nor cared for one who was no more.
And the sad soul of May, that lingered nigh,
Was panged with bitterness, to be forgot
So soon.
And so lay down, and on the breast of June
Her fair head pillowing, breathed away her life.
None knew that she was dying, and the stars
Shone bright and tearless from their far-off sky,
And kindled other stars in lake and river;
The south wind whispered lovingly to her
That slept so long; and lifted her bright hair,
And kissed her playfully, yet never dreamed
That May was dead! Earth felt not her deep loss,
But glad in presence of the lusty June,
Nor grieved nor cared for one who was no more.
And the sad soul of May, that lingered nigh,
Was panged with bitterness, to be forgot
So soon.
'Twas night—but when the blushing Morn
Looked forth from out the portals of the East,
And saw not May, though lovelier than May,
Her sweet young sister, reigned—in somber clouds
She pensive vailed her radiant face, and wept.
Looked forth from out the portals of the East,
And saw not May, though lovelier than May,
Her sweet young sister, reigned—in somber clouds
She pensive vailed her radiant face, and wept.
112
Then May was glad, and rose on glowing plumes
And rippling robes, far into the bright realm
Appointed for the pure and early dead.
And rippling robes, far into the bright realm
Appointed for the pure and early dead.
O, what if noisy Fame ignore thy fall,
And pass thee in forgetfulness or mirth?
Still in the memory of some dear friend
The fragrance of thy better self shall live,
And be an holier sorrow for thy loss!
And pass thee in forgetfulness or mirth?
Still in the memory of some dear friend
The fragrance of thy better self shall live,
And be an holier sorrow for thy loss!
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