The May-Queen.

    Like flights of singing-birds went by
        The cheerful hours of girlhood's day,
                When, in my native bowers,
                Of simple buds and flowers
They wove a crown, and hailed me Queen of May!

    Like airy sprites the lasses came,
        Spring's offerings at my feet to lay;
                The crystal from the fountain,
                The green bough from the mountain,
They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May.

    Around the May-pole on the green,
        A fairy ring they tripped away;
                All merriment and pleasure,
                To chords of tuneful measure
They bounded by the happy Queen of May.

    Though years have passed, and Time has strown
        My raven locks with flakes of gray,
                Fond Memory brings the hours
                Of buds and blossom-showers
When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Beam of Devotion.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Oh, Boatman, Haste!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

In Memory of Charles H. Sandford.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Well-A-Day!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Now comes the bonny May, dancing and skipping
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O Come To The Meadows.

O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
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A Song For May Morning.

Awake! awake! the dusky night
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We will weave a garland gay
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The sun peeps up behind the hills,
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By the brook-side cold and wet,
Blooms the pale, white violet;
There's the purple blossom, too,
Nodding with its weight of dew.

The gentle wind just lifts the head
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And, taken from their rocky bed,
    They in our wreaths shall twine.
Saxifrage, so small and sweet,
Grows in plenty at our feet;
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A Madrigal

The lily-bells ring underground,
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When globes of dew that shine pearl round
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And all the summer blooms and sprays
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The crowning rose of summer time
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Its bright urn holds no honey-wine,
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May.

Oh the merry May has pleasant hours,
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As if they floated like the leaves
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The trees are full of crimson buds,
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And the waters flow to music
    Like a tune with pleasant words.

The verdure of the meadow-land
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The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets
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The lilac has a load of balm
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And the larch stands green and beautiful
    Amid the sombre firs.

There's perfume upon every wind -
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The sick come forth for the healing South,
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May.

New flowery scents strewed everywhere,
New sunshine poured in largesse fair,
"We shall be happy now," we say.
A voice just trembles through the air,
And whispers, "May."

Nay, but we MUST! No tiny bud
But thrills with rapture at the flood
Of fresh young life which stirs to-day.
The same wild thrill irradiates our blood;
Why hint of "May"?

For us are coming fast and soon
The delicate witcheries of June;
July, with ankles deep in hay;
The bounteous Autumn. Like a mocking tune
Again sounds, "May."

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet,
Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet,
And golden locks in breezy play,
Half teasing and half tender, to repeat
Her song of "May."

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