MAY DAYS 



flicker is mining a fortress in the heart of 

 an old apple-tree. 



The squirrels wind a swift ruddy chain 

 about a boll in their love chase, and 

 even now you may surprise the vixen 

 fox watching the first gambols of her 

 tawny cubs by the sunny border of the 

 woods. 



The gray haze of undergrowth and 

 lofty ramage is turning to a misty green, 

 and the shadows of opening buds knot 

 the meshed shadows of twigs on the 

 brown forest floor, which is splashed with 

 white moose-flowers and buds of blood- 

 root, like ivory-tipped arrows, each in a 

 green quiver, and yellow adder-tongues 

 bending above their mottled beds, and 

 rusty trails of arbutus leaves leading to 

 the secret of their hidden bloom, which 

 their fragrance half betrays. 



Marsh marigolds lengthen their golden 

 chain, link by link, along the ditches. 

 The maples are yellow with paler bloom, 

 and the graceful birches are bent with 

 their light burden of tassels. The dande- 

 lion answers the sun, the violet the sky. 

 Blossom and greenness are everywhere ; 

 even the brown paths of the plough 

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