  O lovely May, throw thy soft spell On mountain proud and smiling dell, The world is kneeling at thy shrine— Fond captive of thy moods divine,— And nations rise thy charms to tell. Where could we meet thy parallel? Who would thy witching arts repel? Who dares thy choicest gifts define, O lovely May? And Nature?—Ah, she loves thee well, For Hope and Youth beside thee dwell. Thy sister months with thee combine As lesser streamlets swell the Rhine. ’Twere sin against thee to rebel, O lovely May. |
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