A poet writ a song of May
  That checked his breath awhile;
He kept it for a summer day,
  Then spake with half a smile:

“Oh, little song of purity,
  Of mystic to-and-fro,
You are so much a part of me
  I dare not let you go.”

And so he made a sister-song
  With more of cunning art;
But held the first his...