May brings all the flowers at once,

Teased by rains and kissed by suns;

Now the meadows white and gold;

Now the lambs leap in the fold.

May is wreathed with virgin white;

Glad May dances all the night;

May laughs, rolling ’mong the flowers,

Careless of the wintry hours.

May’s storms turn to sunny rain,

And, when Iris springs again,

All the angels clap their hands,

Singing in their seraph bands.

—Walter Thornbury, “The Twelve Brothers.”

Now, shrilleth clear each several bird his note,

The Halcyon charms the wave that knows no gale,

About our eaves the swallow tells her tale,

Along the river banks the swan, afloat,

And down the woodland glades the nightingale.

Now tendrils curl and earth bursts forth anew—

Now shepherds pipe and fleecy flocks are gay—

Now sailors sail, and Bacchus gets his due—

Now wild birds chirp and bees their toil pursue—

Sing, poet, thou—and sing thy best for May!

—William M. Hardinge, “Spring.”