May is building her house. With apple blooms <br /> She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; <br />Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, <br /> And, spinning all day at her secret looms, <br />With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall <br />She pictureth over, and peopleth it all <br /> With echoes and dreams, <br /> And singing of streams. <br /> <br />May is building her house. Of petal and blade, <br />Of the roots of the oak, is the flooring made, <br /> With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, <br /> Each small miracle over and over, <br />And tender, traveling green things strayed. <br /> <br />Her windows, the morning and evening star, <br />And her rustling doorways, ever ajar <br /> With the coming and going <br /> Of fair things blowing, <br />The thresholds of the four winds are. <br /> <br />May is building her house. From the dust of things <br />She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; <br /> From October's tossed and trodden gold <br /> She is making the young year out of the old; <br /> Yea: out of winter's flying sleet <br /> She is making all the summer sweet, <br /> And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet <br />She is changing back again to spring's.<br /><br />Richard Le Gallienne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/may-is-building-her-house/
