TO MAY
Though many suns have risen and setSince thou, blithe May, wert born,And bards, who hail’d thee, may forgetThy gifts, thy beauty scorn;There are who to a birthday strainConfine not harp and voice,But evermore throughout thy reignAre grateful and rejoice!Delicious odors! music sweet,Too sweet to pass away!O, for a deathless song to meetThe soul’s desire,—a layThat, 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 hourA blossom from thy crown to drop,Nor add to it a flower!Keep, lovely May, as if by touchOf self-restraining art,This modest charm of not too much,Part seen, imagined part.—Wordsworth.
Though many suns have risen and setSince thou, blithe May, wert born,And bards, who hail’d thee, may forgetThy gifts, thy beauty scorn;There are who to a birthday strainConfine not harp and voice,But evermore throughout thy reignAre grateful and rejoice!Delicious odors! music sweet,Too sweet to pass away!O, for a deathless song to meetThe soul’s desire,—a layThat, 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 hourA blossom from thy crown to drop,Nor add to it a flower!Keep, lovely May, as if by touchOf self-restraining art,This modest charm of not too much,Part seen, imagined part.—Wordsworth.
Though many suns have risen and setSince thou, blithe May, wert born,And bards, who hail’d thee, may forgetThy gifts, thy beauty scorn;There are who to a birthday strainConfine not harp and voice,But evermore throughout thy reignAre grateful and rejoice!
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 meetThe soul’s desire,—a layThat, when a thousand years are told,Should praise thee, genial Power!Through summer heat, autumnal cold,And Winter’s dreariest hour.
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 hourA blossom from thy crown to drop,Nor add to it a flower!Keep, lovely May, as if by touchOf self-restraining art,This modest charm of not too much,Part seen, imagined part.
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.
—Wordsworth.