May is building her house.
With apple blooms
She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; Of the oak and the beech
hath she builded its beams,
And, spinning all day at her secret looms, With arras of leaves
each wind-swayed wall
She pictureth over, and peopleth it all
With echoes and dreams,
And singing of streams.
May is building her house.
Of petal and blade, Of the roots of the oak,
is the flooring made,
With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover,
Each small miracle over and over,
And tender, traveling green things strayed.
Her windows, the morning and evening star,
And her rustling doorways, ever ajar
With the coming and going
Of fair things blowing,
The thresholds of the four winds are.
May is building her house.
From the dust of things
She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings;
From October's tossed and trodden gold
She is making the young year out of the old;
Yea: out of winter's flying sleet
She is making all the summer sweet,
And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet
She is changing back again to spring's.
"He is the happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home." —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
