A Blighted May

Call not this the month of roses —
There are none to bud and bloom;
Morning light, alas! discloses
. But the winter of the tomb.
All that should have deck'd a bridal
Rest upon the bier — how idle!
Dying in their own perfume.
Every bower is now forsaken —
There 's no bird to charm the air!
From the bough of youth is shaken
Every hope that blossom'd there;
And my soul doth now enrobe her
In the leaves of sere October
Under branches swaying bare.
When the midnight falls beside me,
Like the gloom which in me lies,
To the stars my feelings guide me,
Seeking there thy sainted eyes;
Stars whose rays seem ever bringing
Down the soothing air, the singing
Of thy soul in paradise.
Oh that I might stand and listen
To that music ending never,
While those tranquil stars should glisten
On my life's o'erfrozen river,
Standing thus, forever seeming
Lost in what the world calls dreaming,
Dreaming, love, of thee, forever!