O come! Is it not surely May?
The year is at its poise today.
Northward, I hear the distant beat
Of Spring's irrevocable feet:
Tomorrow June will have her way.
O tawny waters, flecked with sun,
Come: for your labours all are done.
The grey snow fadeth from the hills;
And toward the sound of waking mills
Swing the brown rafts in, one by one.
O bees among the willow-blooms,
Forget your empty waxen rooms
Awhile, and share our golden hours!
Will they not come, the later flowers,
With their old colours and perfumes?
O wind that bloweth from the west,
Is not this morning road the best?
—Let us go hand in hand, as free
And glad as little children be
That follow some long-dreamed-of quest!