Many a poet in his lay Told me May would come again; Truly sang the bards - for May Yesterday began to reign! She is like a bounteous lord, Gold enough she gives to me; Gold -- such as we poets hoard -- "Florins" of the mead and tree, Hazel flowers and "fleurs-de lis," Underneath her leafy wings, I am safe from treason's stings: I am full of wrath with May, That she will not always stay! Maidens never hear of love, But when she has plumed the grove, -- Give of the gift of song To the poet's heart and tongue. May! Majestic child of heaven, To the earth in glory given! Verdant hills, days long and clear, Come when she is hov'ring near. Stars, ye cannot journey on Joyously when she is gone! Ye are not so glossy bright, Blackbirds, when she takes her flight. Sweetest art thou, nightingale; Poet, thou canst tell thy tale With a lighter heart, when May Rules with all her bright array. |