O,
for an hour this May-day eve to steal along once more
Within
the shadows of the shrubs to some old sweetheart’s door,
And
hang thereon a basketful of flowers sweet and fair,
With
bon-bones, mottoes and perfumes half hidden here and there.
O,
for an hour like that I say, this rarest eve of May,
To
just renew the dear old past so very far away.
And
there beneath the lighted lamp within the quaint old hall,
Methinks
a figure I would see, a figure lithe and tall;
Methinks
I’d see a small white hand remove the dainties rare,
Then
trip adown the path in search of him who put them there.
And
would I speed away like mad, as boys are want to do?
Ah,
no; I’d meet her at the gate and hang myself thereto.
May
12, ‘93
Pub.
in B. Courier,
May
13, ‘94
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