Henry Theodore Tuckerman (1813–1871)

THE BUDS have opened, and in leafy pride

Woo the soft winds of this capricious May;

With a refreshing green the fields are dyed,

And clearer sparkles on the waters play.

All Nature speaks of boundless promise now,

In tones as sweet as thine,—her hand is laid

With a maternal greeting on my brow,

Until its fevered throbbings all are stayed;

And I am fain to lie upon her breast,

Unconscious of the world, divorced from pain,

Drink from her rosy lips the balm of rest,

And be her glad and trustful child again:

But such fond dalliance claims a spirit free,

And all her spells are broken—without thee!