She sang a song of May for me, Wherein once more I heard The mirth of my glad infancy -- The orchard's earliest bird -- The joyous breeze among the trees New-clad in leaf and bloom, And there the happy honey-bees In dewy gleam and gloom.
So purely, sweetly on the sense Of heart and spirit fell Her song of Spring, its influence -- Still irresistible, -- Commands me here -- with eyes ablur -- To mate her bright refrain.
Though I but shed a rhyme for her As dim as Autumn rain.
End of title
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