This is May from Book ii.; and afterwards, in the third book, the months from Spring to Summer—
My own month came;
'Twas a sunrise of blossoming and May.
Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay
Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars
That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars
Dug up at Baiæ, when the south wind shed
The ripest, made him happier.
Not any strollings now at even-close
Down the field path, Sordello! by thorn-rows