by Leigh Hunt

There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May’s in Milton, May’s in Prior,
May’s in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May’s 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,
May’s at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.


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Words inspired by the garden are the sweetest, most beautiful words of all.
James Henry Leigh Hunt
James Henry Leigh Hunt