On the Wye in May

Now is the perfect moment of the year.

   Half naked branches, half a mist of green,

Vivid and delicate the slopes appear;

   The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen,

And in the temperate sun we feel no fear;

   Of all the hours which shall be and have been,

It is the briefest as it is most dear,

   It is the dearest as the shortest seen.

O it was best, belovèd, at the first.—

   Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight

Was steady; on our senses scarce had burst

   The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight. . .

I seek that clime, unknown, without a name,

   Where first and best and last shall be the same.