Hawthorn

by David Anthony

Why are you weeping, May Tree, May Tree,
why are you weeping, May?
Springtimeís fresh and the sun is high;
there is no blue like the morning sky,
and winterís far away.
The seasonís glad so why be sad?
Why are you weeping, May?

Why are you weeping, May Tree, May Tree,
why are you weeping, May—
shedding your tears of perfect white,
pure as sorrow and white as light,
in garlanded decay?

Is it care for seasons yet to be?
Letís look away and refuse to see:
the year is young and so are we
and winterís far away.
Thoughts so cold never trouble me,
so cease your weeping, May.
Please cease your weeping, May.


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