Late evening, on the first of May— The twilit May—the time of love. Meltingly called the turtle-dove, Where rich and sweet pinewoods lay. Whispered of love the mosses frail, The flowering tree as sweetly lied, The rose's fragrant sigh replied To love-songs of the nightingale. In shadowy woods the burnished lake Darkly complained a secret pain, By circling shores embraced again; And heaven's clear sun leaned down to take A road astray in azure deeps, Like burning tears the lover weeps