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Who first beholds the light of day In Spring's sweet flowery month of May And wears an Emerald all her life, Shall be a loved and happy wife.

Hebe's here, May is here! The air is fresh and sunny; And the miser-bees are busy Hoarding golden honey.

As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made.

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet, And golden locks in breezy play, Half teasing and half tender, to repeat Her song of "May."

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

Sweet May hath come to love us, Flowers, trees, their blossoms don; And through the blue heavens above us The very clouds move on.

O May, sweet-voice one, going thus before, Forever June may pour her warm red wine Of life and passions,--sweeter days are thine!

O month when they who love must love and wed.

Oh! that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing, In the shade of the whispering trees.

For it ne sits not unto fresh May Forto be coupled to cold January.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May: Waiting for the pleasant rambles Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, Where the woodbine alternating, Scent the dewy way; Ah! my heart is weary, waiting, Waiting for the May.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing, Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

A warm January; a cold May.

In the under-wood and the over-wood There is murmur and trill this day, For every bird is in lyric mood, And the wind will have its way.

All furnished, all in arms; All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed; Glittering in golden coats like images; As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.

No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

More matter for a May morning.

Another May new buds and flowers shall bring: Ah! why has happiness no second Spring?