MAY « 
The sick come forth for the healing south, 
The young are gathering flowers; 
And life is a tale of poetry 
That is told by golden hours. 
If ’tis not a true philosophy, 
That the spirit, when set free, 
Still lingers about its olden home, 
In the flower and the tree, 
It is very strange that our pulses thrill 
At the sight of a voiceless thing, 
And our hearts yearn so with tenderness 
In the beautiful time of Spring. 

