May Day, 1894

Clad is the year in all her best,          The land is sweet and sheen;     Now Spring with Summer at her breast,          Goes down the meadows green.     Here are we met to welcome in          The young abounding year,     To praise what she would have us win          Ere winter draweth near.     For surely all is not in vain,          This gallant show she brings;     But seal of hope and sign of gain,          Beareth this Spring of springs.     No longer now the seasons wear          Dull, without any tale     Of how the chain the toilers bear          Is growing thin and frail.     But hope of plenty and goodwill          Flies forth from land to land,     Nor any now the voice can still          That crieth on the hand.     A little while shall Spring come back          And find the Ancient Home     Yet marred by foolish waste and lack,          And most enthralled by some.     A little while, and then at last          Shall the greetings of the year     Be blent with wonder of the past          And all the griefs that were.     A little while, and they that meet          The living year to praise,     Shall be to them as music sweet          That grief of bye-gone days.     So be we merry to our best,          Now the land is sweet and sheen,     And Spring with Summer at her breast          Goes down the meadows green.