May, ‘Sweet Life is dead.’

  'Sweet Life is dead.'—'Not so: 
    I meet him day by day, 
  Where bluest fountains flow 
  And trees are white as snow, 
    For it is time of May. 
  Even now from long ago
    He will not say me nay. 
  He is most fair to see: 
And if I wander forth, 
  I know He wanders forth with me.'

  "But Life is dead to me:
    The worn-out year was failing, 
    West winds took up a wailing 
    To watch his funeral:
    Bare poplars shivered tall
And lank vines stretched to see. 
    "Twixt him and me a wall 
  Was frozen of earth-like stone
  With brambles overgrown:
Chill darkness wrapped him like a pall, 
  And I am left alone.'

  'How can you call him dead? 
    He buds out everywhere: 
      In every hedgerow rank,
      On every moss-grown bank, 
    I find him here and there.
  He crowns my willing head 
  With May-flowers white and red, 
He rears my tender heartsease-bed: 
He makes my branch to bud and bear, 
    And blossoms where I tread.'