It Is Not Always May / Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It Is Not Always May

No hay pájaros en los nidos de antaño. 

                                – Spanish proverb

The sun is bright,the air is clear,
    The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear
    The blue-bird prophesying Spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,
    It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west wind blows,
    The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

All things are new; the buds, the leaves,
    That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves;
    There are no birds in last year's nest!

All things rejoice in youth and love,
    The fulness of their first delight!
And learn from the soft heavens above
    The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
    Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
    For O! it is not always May!

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
    To some good angel leave the rest;
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
    There are no birds in last year's nest!

~~
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
from Ballads, and other poems, 1842

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow biography

'Tis May Now in New England / Bliss Carman

'Tis May Now in New England

'Tis May now in New England
And through the open door
I see the creamy breakers,
I hear the hollow roar.

Back to the golden marshes
Comes summer at full tide,
But not the golden comrade
Who was the summer's pride.

~~
Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
from Later Poems, 1926

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Bob Galindo, Malone spring marshes, May 2013. CC BY-SA 3.0, Wikimedia Commons 

Bliss Carman biography

Ode, Composed on May Morning / William Wordsworth

Ode, Composed on May Morning

While from the purpling east departs
    The star that led the dawn,
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
    For May is on the lawn.
A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
    Foreran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,
    Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
    Tempers the year's extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,
    Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
    The tremulous heart excite;
And hums the balmy air to still
    The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when youth and maids
    At peep of dawn would rise,
And wander forth, in forest glades
    Thy birth to solemnize.
Though mute the song – to grace the rite
    Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight;
    Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
    In love's disport employ;
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things
    Awake to silent joy:
Queen art thou still for each gay plant
    Where the slim wild deer roves;
And served in depths where fishes haunt
    Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,
    Instinctive homage pay;
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath
    To honor thee, sweet May!
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs
    Behold a smokeless sky,
Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares
    To open a bright eye.

And if, on this thy natal morn,
    The pole, from which thy name
Hath not departed, stands forlorn
    Of song and dance and game;
Still from the village-green a vow
    Aspires to thee addrest,
Wherever peace is on the brow,
    Or love within the breast.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach
    The soul to love the more;
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach
    That never loved before.
Stript is the haughty one of pride,
    The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
    In flow the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse
    The service to prolong!
To yon exulting thrush the Muse
    Entrusts the imperfect song;
His voice shall chant, in accents clear,
    Throughout the live-long day,
Till the first silver star appear,
    The sovereignty of May.

~~
William Wordsworth (1770-1850),1826
from Yarrow Revisited, and other poems, 1835

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Wordsworth biography

Afternoon on a Hill / Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

Afternoon on a Hill

I will be the gladdest thing
    Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
    And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
    With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
    And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
    Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
    And then start down!

~~
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
from Renascence, and other poems, 1912

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Edna St. Vincent Millay biography 

"Afternoon on a Hill" (music by Cynthia Gray). Courtesy The Lorenz Corporation.

May Night / Sara Teasdale

May Night

The spring is fresh and fearless
    And every leaf is new,
The world is brimmed with moonlight,
    The lilac brimmed with dew.

Here in the moving shadows
    I catch my breath and sing –
My heart is fresh and fearless
    And over-brimmed with spring.

~~
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
from Rivers to the Sea, 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Sara Teasdale biography

May / Rebecca Hey

May

The clouds "have wept their fill" the whole night long,
And what a change is wrought! But yesterday,
We look'd around, and scarce could deem that May,
The poet's theme,— the month of flowers and song,—
Could do her own sweet lineaments such wrong
As to frown on us like a very shrew:
To-day, we feel what poets sing is true;
Like them, we hail her reign, and wish it long.
See, how each budding spray, each floweret fair
Retains the liquid treasure! how the trees,
Lest summer should o'ertake them unaware,
Haste to unfold their leaflets to the breeze;
While in the orchard every moss-grown stem,
And sapling shoot, a thousand blossoms gem!

~~
Rebecca Hey (1797-1867)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[June]

Rebecca Hey biography

My Mother / Ann Taylor

My Mother

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
                                        My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
                                        My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
                                        My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
                                        My Mother.

Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play.
And minded all I had to say?
                                        My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
                                        My Mother.
 

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in Wisdom’s pleasant way?
                                        My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?
                                        My Mother.

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
                                        My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
                                        My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
‘Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
                                        My Mother.

For God who lives above the skies
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
                                        My Mother.

Illustration by Walter Crane (1845-1915). Public domain.

~~

Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
from Original Poems for Infant Minds, 1834

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Ann Taylor biography