MAY DAY. 



A S over the ledger s wearisome page 

 On this bright May morn I pore, 

 A faint but delicious fragrance seems 

 To steal in at the open door. 



This phantom fragrance dimly recalls 

 Some pleasure that erstwhile I ve known; 



I remember all its bewitching charm. 

 But the time and the scene are flown. 



Perhaps tis a breeze from Arbutus flowers, 



That is wafted from far-away hills, 

 Or, is it some dear remembrance of home 



The alembic of absence distills? 



Or, is it the glove that once lay on my arm, 



So happy, confiding and dear? 

 It perfumed my heart with its exquisite scent, 



And I kissed it, it was so near. 



Or, is it the rose on her bosom worn ? 



Ah me ! that fragrance divine 

 Came more from her womanly grace than the rose, 



As I pressed her sweet lips to mine. 



This fugitive breath that comes from the Past 



Eludes all attempts to recall; 

 L nless perhaps there it comes again; 



Ah ! now I remember it all. 



It is neither from hills, nor glove, nor rose; 



Tis a Maytime we both once knew 

 A memory, dear heart, of the exquisite charm 



Of Love s sweet Springtime and you. 



