Poems (Rossetti, 1901)/May
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MAY.
I CANNOT tell you how it was; But this I know: it came to pass Upon a bright and breezy day When May was young; ah, pleasant May As yet the poppies were not born Between the blades of tender corn; The last eggs had not hatched as yet, Nor any bird forgone its mate.
I cannot tell you what it was; But this I know: it did but pass. It passed away with sunny May, With all sweet things it passed away, And left me old, and cold, and grey.