Volume 3 — SONNET XLIII. TO MAY, IN THE YEAR 1783.

My memory, long accustom’d to receive In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait Past times and seasons wore, can find no date Thro’ many years, O! May, when thou hadst leave, As now, of the great Sun, serene to weave Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait, Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve, His mild illuminations.—Nymph, no more Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade Of half-blown leaves, and shivering to deplore Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid; Meads dropt with gold again to thee belong,[81] Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song.