I

O you, who know our Mays that blow The bluets by the ways; The Indian-pink,--whose bloom you ’d think Was blood for some wild bee to drink,-- How--can you say--in their wise way Is it you ’re like our Mays?-- In gleam and gloom and wild perfume Of moods that run from shade to sun:-- While in you seems the light that dreams In thoughts of other days.