I
CHILL was the midnight at the birth of May,
And yet ere long the infant month declined
To wear the rags that winter left behind,
And smiling drove the laggard frost away.
Now there is warmth even when the sky is grey,
And heat when it is azure. Oh to find
Some perseverance in May’s present mind
Without a lapse for even a single day!
She is a wayward fairy, and can be
At times forgetful of her true intent.
Too oft a single night’s inconstancy
May bring disaster on the innocent
And tender plant. Next night she may repent,
But not repair the sad catastrophe.
II
But hearken not to prophecies of woe:
Rather rejoice; for May, true May, is here.
Predicted evils never may appear:
Clouds still below the horizon should not throw
A shadow. Sweet is pleasure that we know,
Despite the chances of the thing we fear.
Through every summer must our hearts be drear
Because July once brought a shower of snow?
When God lets Nature and the garden smile,
‘Tis His good gift, and should not be dispraised
Because some seasons for a little while
He gives less freely. We should be amazed,
Not at the little which we may not touch,
But rather that our Eden holds so much.
(Robert Henry Forster)
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