Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing,
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
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Sweet May hath come to love us,
Flowers, trees, their blossoms don;
And through the blue heavens read more
Sweet May hath come to love us,
Flowers, trees, their blossoms don;
And through the blue heavens above us
The very clouds move on.
In the under-wood and the over-wood
There is murmur and trill this day,
For every bird is read more
In the under-wood and the over-wood
There is murmur and trill this day,
For every bird is in lyric mood,
And the wind will have its way.
More matter for a May morning.
More matter for a May morning.
But winter lingering chills the lap of May.
But winter lingering chills the lap of May.
Who first beholds the light of day
In Spring's sweet flowery month of May
And wears an read more
Who first beholds the light of day
In Spring's sweet flowery month of May
And wears an Emerald all her life,
Shall be a loved and happy wife.
When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the read more
When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox
His torch of purple fire:
. . . .
And when the punctual May arrives,
With cowslip-garland on her brow,
We know what once she gave our lives,
And cannot give us now!
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
read more
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made.
There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury,
exceeds her as much in beauty as the read more
There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury,
exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last
of December.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May:
Waiting for the pleasant rambles
read more
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May:
Waiting for the pleasant rambles
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
Where the woodbine alternating,
Scent the dewy way;
Ah! my heart is weary, waiting,
Waiting for the May.
