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 I 



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. 



HE older poets loved to describe 

 May as a beautiful maiden, 

 clothed in sunshine and scattering 

 fiow^ers on the earth, while she 

 danced to the music of birds and 

 brooks. 

 For example, Spencer w^rote : 



"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." 



