If May were yet to burn away
In flower flame, both fain and fill,
I would stand here still and say,
--It stood a day. And what a day.
May's the month that's blooming now
I no sooner write the word,
That it seems as if it heard,
And looks up, and laughs at me."
May will part with Spenser never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer:"
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves
In happy places they call shelves,"
With a drapery thick with blooms."
May's at home and with me still:
But come rather, thou, good weather
And find us in the fields together."