The End Of May

HE fragrant air is full of down,

Of floating, fleecy

From some forgotten fairy

Where all the folk wear wings.

Or else the snowflakes, soft

In dainty suits of lace,

Have ventured back in masquerade,

Spring's festival to grace.

Or these, perchance, are fleets of fluff,

Laden with rainbow seeds,

That count their cargo rich

Though all its wealth be weeds.

Or come they from the golden trees,

Where dancing blossoms were,

That now are drifting on the breeze,

Sweet ghosts of gossamer?