162. The Queen of Seasons
{287} (A Song for an inclement May.)
which the Highest has made,
Through the days that He wrought,
till the day when He stay'd;
From the centre of space,
On the morn of its birth,
like an innocent child, {288}
Or like the rich bloom
of some delicate flower;
And the Father rejoiced
in the work of His power.
Yet worlds brighter still,
and a brighter than those,
And a brighter again,
He had made, had He chose;
And you never could name
To exhaust the resources
the Maker possess'd.
But I know of one work
of his Infinite Hand,
Which special and singular
ever must stand;
So perfect, so pure,
and of gifts such a store,
That even Omnipotence
ne'er shall do more. {289}
The freshness of May,
and the sweetness of June,
And the fire of July
in its passionate noon,
Munificent August,
September serene,
Are together no match
for my glorious Queen.
O Mary, all months
and all days are thine own,
In thee lasts their joyousness,
when they are gone;
And we give to thee May,
not because it is best,
But because it comes first,
and is pledge of the rest.
The Oratory.
1850.