May

I cannot tell you how it was;But this I know: it came to passUpon a bright and breezy dayWhen May was young; ah, pleasant May!As yet the poppies were not bornBetween the blades of tender corn;The last eggs had not hatched as yet,Nor any bird forgone its mate.

I cannot tell you what it was;But this I know: it did but pass.It passed away with sunny May,With all sweet things it passed away,And left me old, and cold, and grey.