An, June is here, but where is May? —
That lovely, shadowy thing,
Fair promiser of fairer day,
That made my fancy stretch her wing,
In hope-begetting spring.
The spaces vague, the luminous veil,
The drift of bloom and scent,
Those dreamy longings setting sail,
That knew not, asked not, where they went, —
Ah ! was this all they meant, —
This day that lets me dream no more,
This bright, unshadowed round ?
On some illimitable shore,
The harbor whither those were bound
Lieth, nor yet is found.
Frances Louisa Bushnell.