Monday, May 1, 2017


by James Gates Percival

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;
The winds, that fan the flowers,
And with their welcome breathings fill the
Tell of serener hours, --
Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south- wind calls
From his blue throne of air,
And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there;
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves.
To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;
And from its darkening shadow floats
A gush of trembling notes.

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