May by Christina Georgina Rossetti — Read

I cannot tell you how it was; / But this I know: it came to pass / Upon a bright and breezy day / When May was young; ah, pleasant May! / As yet the poppies were not born / Between the blades of tender corn; / The last eggs had not hatched as yet, / Nor any bird foregone its mate.

I cannot tell you what it was; / But this I know: it did but pass. / It passed away with sunny May, / With all sweet things it passed away, / And left me old, and cold, and gray.