The Beeches Brighten

The beeches brighten for young May,

And young grass shines along her way;

Joy bares to her his sunny head,

Leaned over brook and blossom-bed;

The smell of Spring fills all the air,

And wooing birds make music there.

There 's naught of sound or sight to grieve,

From quiring morn to quiet eve;

Only the shadow thought will cast,—

This loveliness, it cannot last.

The merry field, the ringing bough,

Will silent be as voiceful now;

Chill, warning winds will hither roam,

The Summer's children hasten home;

That blue solicitude of sky

Bent over beauty doomed to die,

Ere long will, pitying, witness here,

The yielded glory of the year.