May 25th, 1844

How Strange the cold ungenial atmosphere,
Beneath the cover of so bright a sky !
Each way-side flower hath oped its little eye ;
The very coyest buds of all the year
Have ventured forth to see if all be clear.
Full-leaved the pendant birches droop and sigh ;
The oak is clothed in vernal majesty ;
White-chaliced lilies float upon the mere.
The very warmth that made this world of beauty
Is summoned to another tract of duty,
And leaves a substitute so stern and cold,
We half regret old Winter's honest rule.
The roaring chimney and the log of yule :
May hath such airs as May had not of old.