May

O month when they who love must love and wed!

Were one to go to worlds where May is naught,

And seek to tell the memories he had brought

From earth of thee, what were most fitly said?

I know not if the rosy showers shed

From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought

In fields, or if the robin's call be fraught

The most with thy delight. Perhaps they read

Thee best who in the ancient time did say

Thou wert the sacred month unto the old:

No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day

So subtly sweet as memories which unfold

In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie,

To sun themselves once more before they die.