Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
    Waiting for the May--
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
  With the woodbine alternating,
    Scent the dewy way.
  Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
    Waiting for the May.

  Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
    Longing for the May--
Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
  And the thousand charms belonging
    To the summer's day.
  Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
    Longing for the May.

  Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
    Sighing for the May--
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
  Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,
    All the winter lay.
  Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
    Sighing for the May.

  Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,
    Throbbing for the May--
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows,
  Where in laughing and in sobbing
    Glide the streams away.
  Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,
    Throbbing for the May.

  Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
    Waiting for the May.
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings;
  Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
    Life still ebbs away:
  Man is ever weary, weary,
    Waiting for the May!

When I wander by the ocean,
When I view its wild commotion,
Then the spirit of devotion
  Cometh near;
And it fills my brain and bosom,
  Like a fear!

I fear its booming thunder,
Its terror and its wonder,
Its icy waves, that sunder
  Heart from heart;
And the white host that lies under
  Makes me start.

Its clashing and its clangour
Proclaim the Godhead's anger--
I shudder, and with langour
  Turn away;
No joyance fills my bosom
  For that day.

When I wander through the valleys,
When the evening zephyr dallies,
And the light expiring rallies
  In the stream,
That spirit comes and glads me,
  Like a dream.

The blue smoke upward curling,
The silver streamlet purling,
The meadow wildflowers furling
  Their leaflets to repose:
All woo me from the world
  And its woes.

The evening bell that bringeth
A truce to toil outringeth,
No sweetest bird that singeth
  Half so sweet,
Not even the lark that springeth
  From my feet.

Then see I God beside me,
The sheltering trees that hide me,
The mountains that divide me
  From the sea:
All prove how kind a Father
  He can be.

Beneath the sweet moon shining
The cattle are reclining,
No murmur of repining
  Soundeth sad:
All feel the present Godhead,
  And are glad.

With mute, unvoiced confessings,
To the Giver of all blessings
I kneel, and with caressings
  Press the sod,
And thank my Lord and Father,
  And my God.

The different hues that deck the earth
All in our bosoms have their birth;
'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies,
'Tis in the heart the summer lies!
The earth is bright if that be glad,
Dark is the earth if that be sad:
And thus I feel each weary day--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

In vain, upon her emerald car,
Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar,"
And scatters o'er the woods and fields
The liberal gifts that nature yields;
In vain the buds begin to grow,
In vain the crocus gilds the snow;
I feel no joy though earth be gay--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the Autumn crowns the year,
And ripened hangs the golden ear,
And luscious fruits of ruddy hue
The bending boughs are glancing through,
When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks
Come forth and try the mountain brooks,
Even then I feel, as there I stray--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the winter comes at length,
With swaggering gait and giant strength,
And with his strong arms in a trice
Binds up the streams in chains of ice,
What need I sigh for pleasures gone,
The twilight eve, the rosy dawn?
My heart is changed as much as they--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

Even now, when Summer lends the scene
Its brightest gold, its purest green,
Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast,
With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd,
When now I hear the breeze that stirs
The golden bells that deck the furze,
Alas! unprized they pass away--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

But when thou comest back once more,
Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar,
And mists obscure the nearest hills,
And dark and turbid roll the rills,
Such pleasures then my breast shall know,
That summer's sun shall round me glow;
Then through the gloom shall gleam the May--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,
  Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine,
And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness,
  Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine!
But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings,
  Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair
As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12]
  The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

It was all but a moment, her radiant existence,
  Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me;
But time has not ages and earth has not distance
  To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee!
Again am I straying where children are playing,
  Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air,
Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee,
  Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!

Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster
  Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air;
But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre
  No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear;
To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing,
  Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear?
Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty,
  That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest,
  Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye,
That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest,
  Receive such impressions as never can die!
The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13]
  Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear;
Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it:
  And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

To him who far travels how sad is the feeling,
  How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim,
When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing,
  All fade as a vision and vanish from him!
Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland
  That memory weaves of the bright and the fair;
While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing,
  And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare!

In lonely