“Quite sick,” they say, in the month of May;
And the doctors all stood pat;
Yes, truly astray, unfit for the fray;
Indeed I had fallen flat,
Till the month of May, my holiday,
Near Nature’s heart whereat
I’ll doff decay, with all dismay,
And with her grow strong and fat.
The month of May for peace and play,
When the birds so fondly chat;