Once I see the flowery wreaths of May,
the month of love for Mary and her Child,
the month of love for thee, my pious friend,
the month of love of poetry, more sweet
Than love to both our blended loving hearts!
Once more I see thee, glorious month, ascend
Triumphant in the skies, whom first of all
My eyes did greet when life, bestowed on me
By Him who giveth all, a flowery bud,
Unfolded its fair blossom: when my heart
First beat against the heart that gave it life.
On this fair eve of May, when I was born,
Should I repress the beatings of a heart
That beats for thee, my friend, because it beats
For none but virtuous? … Should I repel
The sweet remembrance of my childly love
When none I knew but virtuous loving hearts
(No none but a remembered privilege!)?
Should I restrain my love for thee, who art
A child as yet, and much more lovely thus? …
O, sweet companion of my heart! Forgive
If, on this glorious eve of May, I think
And pray for thee to Her, who took the seat
Of one unhallowed Goddess of the flowers,
Proclaimed by Pagan muse, by Christian Faith
Thrust back into het nothingness! Forgive
If, looking forth into the misty haze
Of future times, I pray for thee to Her!
And if, perchance, thy destined path should lead
Where, priestly friend, I never tread myself,
Remember him, who loved thee like a child
For love of Him, who was a Child Himself!
Remember me, nor do forget the home
Where all who meet shall never have to part!
Did we not learn our poetry together?
Faber