MAY. 



In this May-month by grace 



of heaven, things shoot apace. 

 The waiting multitude 



of fair boughs in the wood, 

 How few days have arrayed 



their beauty in green shade! 



The golden willows lift 



their boughs the sun to sift: 



Their silken streamers screen 



the sky with veils of green, 



To make a cage of song, 



where feathered lovers throng. 



Hearing their song, I trace 



the secret of their grace. 

 Ah, could I this fair time 



so fashion into rhyme, 

 The poem that I sing 



would be the voice of spring. 



Robert Bridges. 



jHE older poets loved to describe 

 May as a beautiful maiden, 

 clothed in sunshine and scattering 

 flowers on the earth, while she 

 danced to the music of birds and 

 brooks. 

 For example, Spencer wrote: 



"Then came fair May, the fayrest mayd on ground, 



Deckt all with dainties of her season's pryde, 

 And throwing flowers out of her lap around." 



