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.