TO MAY
Though many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And bards, who hail’d thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!
Delicious odors! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!
O, for a deathless song to meet
The soul’s desire,—a lay
That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power!
Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And Winter’s dreariest hour.
Season of fancy and of hope,
Permit not for one hour
A blossom from thy crown to drop,
Nor add to it a flower!
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch
Of self-restraining art,
This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part.
—Wordsworth.