Image from The Nevada Observer
The Poor Man’s May.
Sweet May? they tell me thou art come:
Thou art not come to me;
I cannot spare a single hour,
Sweet May? to welcome thee.
God knows how hard I’ve work’d this week,
To earn my childrens bread;
And see, we have an empty board, —
My children are unfed.
And art thou still the same sweet May
My childhood loved so well,
When humming like a happy bee,
Along some primrose dell,
I though, O! what a lovely world
Is this, dear God has given,
And wondered any one should seek
For any other heaven?
The hawthorn buds are come again,
And apple blossoms too;
And all the idel happy birds
May sing the long day through,
The old green lane awakes once more,
And looks, perhaps, for me:
Alas! green lane, my heart may die —
I cannot come to thee.
The Mountain Democrat (Placerville, California) Jul 29, 1854