To Dora Quillinan

Well, this is really like the poet's May,
The merry May of which we used to hear,
Big with the promise of the coming year !
The apple-trees their rosy bloom display,
The flowerets, many-hued, that line the way,
Long-soak'd with rain, and chill'd with whistling blast,
Look happy now, like maidens, that at last
Are to be wedded, after long delay.
Oh ! that the joy, the fragrance, and the bloom,
That bid all life and even poor man be glad.
Might waft a breath of comfort to the room
Where she lies smitten, yet not wholly sad.
Waiting with frame immortal to be clad,
In patient expectation of her doom !