Grief was my master yesternight; <br />To-morrow I may grieve again; <br />But now along the windy plain <br />The clouds have taken flight. <br /> <br />The sowers in the furrows go; <br />The lusty river brimmeth on; <br />The curtains from the hills are gone; <br />The leaves are out; and lo, <br /> <br />The silvery distance of the day, <br />The light horizons, and between <br />The glory of the perfect green, <br />The tumult of the May. <br /> <br />The bobolinks at noonday sing <br />More softly than the softest flute, <br />And lightlier than the lightest lute <br />Their fairy tambours ring. <br /> <br />The roads far off are towered with dust; <br />The cherry-blooms are swept and thinned; <br />In yonder swaying elms the wind <br />Is charging gust on gust. <br /> <br />But here there is no stir at all; <br />The ministers of sun and shadow <br />Horde all the perfumes of the meadow <br />Behind a grassy wall. <br /> <br />An infant rivulet wind-free <br />Adown the guarded hollow sets, <br />Over whose brink the violets <br />Are nodding peacefully. <br /> <br />From pool to pool it prattles by; <br />The flashing swallows dip and pass, <br />Above the tufted marish grass, <br />And here at rest am I. <br /> <br />I care not for the old distress, <br />Nor if to-morrow bid me moan; <br />To-day is mine, and I have known <br />An hour of blessedness.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-may-4/
