Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Song for May-Day

Song for May-Day.

   It is May! it is May!   And all earth is gay, For at last old Winter is quite away;He lingered awhile in his cloak of snow,To see the delicate primrose blow; He saw it, and made no longer stay—-  And now it is May! it is May!

   It is May! it is May!   And we bless the day When we first delightedly so can say;April had beams amid her showers,Yet bare were her gardens, and cold her bowers; And her frown would blight, and her smile betray—  But now it is May! it is May!

   It is May! it is May!   And the slenderest spray Holds up a few leaves to the ripening ray:And the birds sing fearlessly out on high,For there is not a cloud in the calm blue sky, And the villagers join in their roundelay—  For, oh! it is May! it is May!

   It is May! it is May!   And the flowers obey The beams which alone are more bright than they:Up they spring at the touch of the sun,And opening their sweet eyes, one by one In a language of beauty, they seem all to say—  And of perfumes—'tis May! it is May!

   It is May! it is May!   And delights that lay Chilled and enchained beneath Winter's sway,Break forth again o'er the kindling soul;And soften and soothe it, and bless it whole; Oh! thoughts more tender than words convey  Sigh out—It is May! it is May!