SHE comes, the poet’s fav’rite theme,
The pride of all the circling year;
She comes, but tearful is her eye,
No smiles upon her face appear.
The promis’d honours of her reign
Are blasted by a wintry storm;
The smiling azure of her skies,
Dark heavy rolling clouds deform,
She mourns the leafy chaplet green,
Which wont her forehead fair to bind,
Strew’d in disorder o’er the earth,
Torn by the rough tempestuous wind.
She mourns her painted blossoms gay,
Untimely scatter’d on the ground;
The garden and the orchard’s pride,
In beauteous ruins strew’d around.
She mourns the flowrets of the vale,
That bloom’d for her in wilds unseen,
Along the verdant streamlet’s side,
Beneath the copse’s shelt’ring screen.
They bloom in simple grace no more,
But drooping on their slender stems,
And shrinking from the northern blast,
Lie with’ring o’er the woodland gems.
Ah! stormy May, what poet’s song
Can hail thy birth in strains of joy?
Sad dirges for thy blasted charms,
May now their mournful lyres employ.
(Isabella Lickbarrow)
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Based on Topics: Sadness Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Smiling Poems, Literature Poems, Pride Poems, Garden Poems, Poets PoemsBased on Keywords: flowrets