English poem
Ii. _A Road Song In May._
by Francis Sherman (1825–1905)
O come! Is it not surely May? The year is at its poise today. Northward, I hear the distant beat Of Spring's irrevocable feet: Tomorrow June will have her way.
O tawny waters, flecked with sun, Come: for your labours all are done. The grey snow fadeth from the hills; And toward the sound of waking mills Swing the brown rafts in, one by one.
O bees among the willow-blooms, Forget your empty waxen rooms Awhile, and share our golden hours! Will they not come, the later flowers, With their old colours and perfumes?
O wind that bloweth from the west, Is not this morning road the best? --Let us go hand in hand, as free And glad as little children be That follow some long-dreamed-of quest!