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A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion,
He pours on the west wind's fragrant sigh:
Around, above, there are peace and pleasure-
The woodlands are singing — the heaven is bright;
The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure,
And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.
Alas for my weary and care-haunted bosom!-
The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more;
The song in the wild wood — the sheen in the blossom-
The fresh swelling fountain-their magic is o'er!
When I list to the streams, when I look on the flowers,
They tell of the Past with so mournful a tone,
That I call up the throngs of my long-banished hours,
And sigh that their transports are over and gone.
From the wide-spreading earth, from the limitless heaven,
There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam;
To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given,
Which coloreth life with the hues of a dream:
The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth-
I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;--
But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth,
Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.
Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended-
'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow;
But the newness and sweetness of being are ended-
I feel not their love-kindling witchery now;
The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping-
There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;
The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,
And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.
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