A Sleet-Storm In May

On southern winds shot through with amber light, Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white, The lily-fingered Spring came o’er the hills, Waking the crocus and the daffodils. O’er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh-- The maples sang and flung their banners high, Their crimson tasselled pennons, and the elm Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm. Beneath the musky rot of last year’s leaves, Under the forest’s myriad naked eaves, Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue, Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew. With timid tread adown the barren wood Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood White-mantled Winter nodding his white head, Stormy his brow and stormily he said: “The God of Terror, and the King of Storm, Must I remind thee how my iron arm Raised rebel standards ’mid these conquered bowers, Turning their green to crimson?--Thou, with flowers, Thou wouldst supplant me! nay! usurp my throne!-- Audacious one!”--

And at her breast he tossed A glittering spear of ice and piercing frost, And struck her down, dead on th’ unfeeling mold. The fragile blossoms, gathered in the fold Of her young bosom, fell in desolate rows About her beauty; and, like fragrant snows, Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet, Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweet That died there. Lilacs, musky of the May, And bluer violets and snowdrops lay Entombed in crystal, icy faint and fair, Like teardrops scattered through her heavenly hair.

Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain! Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.-- We should not question such; a higher power Knows best what bud is ripest, or what flower, Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.