May

I cannot tell you how it was,
But this I know: it came to pass
Upon a bright and sunny day
When May was young; ah, pleasant May!
As yet the poppies were not born
Between the blades of tender corn;
The last egg had not hatched as yet,
Nor any bird foregone its mate.
I cannot tell you what it was,
But this I know: it did but pass.
It passed away with sunny May,
Like all sweet things it passed away,
And left me old, and cold, and gray.

Poem by: Christina Rossetti

Moments from the memory 
Times of pure delight 
From years of changing life. 
Times of new achievements, 
New skills of hand and eye. 
And life and limb. 
Reading, swimming, riding, 
A fairy cycle through the village, 
And getting though the driving test, 
All such great elations. 
Learning to observe the world, 
Seeing the beauty all around, 
The foam of crashing seas, 
Sunset’s glorious glow, 
Icebergs, and great glaciers 
The waddling walk of penguins 
And the growling gait of polar bears, 
And overall the mysterious magnificence 
Of the Aurora Borealis flickering in the night 
In awesome power and beauty. 
The revelations of such moments 
Bringing such contentment and delight. 
Above all these, 
The awesomeness of love, and its return, 
Of lover, child and grandchild. 
All of these stored in memory’s box, 
Unpacked from time to time, 
Such riches so sublime, 
And I am truly blest 
In all my happiest times.

​

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast, 
He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. ​

Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;
Long have I listened to the wailing wind,
And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds,
For autumn charms my melancholy mind.

When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail
Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!

Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,
The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s bier,
These waiting mourners do not sing for me!

I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,
Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;
The naked, silent trees have taught me this,--
​ The loss of beauty is not always loss!

This poem appeared in Poems (Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1895).
​It is in the public domain.