May And The Poets
By James Henry Leigh Hunt
There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
Mays in Milton, Mays in Prior,
Mays in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
Mays in all the Italian books:
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
Mays at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.