The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 1.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

She left us in the bloom of May:
     The constant years told o'er
Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
     But she came back no more.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
     Of uneventful years;
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
     And reap the autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year
     Her summer roses blow;
The dusky children of the sun
     Before her come and go.

There haply with her jewelled hands
     She smooths her silken gown,—
No more the homespun lap wherein
     I shook the walnuts down.

The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
     The brown nuts on the hill,
And still the May-day flowers make sweet
     The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond,
     The bird builds in the tree,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
     The slow song of the sea.