17.03.2008, 13:44
May Morning
In days of yore, while yet the world was young,
Fair nymphs arose to grace the morn of May,
And ere the East had doffed the pearly grey,
Went forth to catch the jewell'd drops that hung
On the fresh virgin leaves the woods among;
And many a delicate foot-mark might be seen,
Tinting the silvery lawn with darker green;
And many a bird, untimely waked, upsprung,
Scattering the maythorn's white. O lovely season,
Where art thou gone? Methinks the cold neglect
Of thy old rites, perchance, may be the reason
Thou wilt not punctual keep thy wonted time,
But, angry at our slothful disrespect,
Carest not to quit some duteous happier clime.
In days of yore, while yet the world was young,
Fair nymphs arose to grace the morn of May,
And ere the East had doffed the pearly grey,
Went forth to catch the jewell'd drops that hung
On the fresh virgin leaves the woods among;
And many a delicate foot-mark might be seen,
Tinting the silvery lawn with darker green;
And many a bird, untimely waked, upsprung,
Scattering the maythorn's white. O lovely season,
Where art thou gone? Methinks the cold neglect
Of thy old rites, perchance, may be the reason
Thou wilt not punctual keep thy wonted time,
But, angry at our slothful disrespect,
Carest not to quit some duteous happier clime.