The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 293 : When sweet wild April Dipped down the dale, Pale cuckoopint brightened, And windflower

When sweet wild April Dipped down the dale, Pale cuckoopint brightened, And windflower trail, And white-thorn, the wood-bride, In virginal veil.

Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

When sweet wild April Through deep woods pressed, Sang cuckoo above him, And lark on his crest, And Philomel fluttered Close under his breast.

Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

O sweet wild April, Wherever you went The bondage of winter Was broken and rent, Sank elfin ice-city And frost-goblin's tent.

Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

Yet sweet wild April, The blithe, the brave, Fell asleep in the fields By a windless wave And Jack-in-the-Pulpit Preached over his grave.

Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

O sweet wild April, Farewell to thee!

And a deep sweet sleep To thy sisters three,-- Carnation, and Rose, And tall Lily.

Sing hi, Sing hey, Sing ho!

William Force Stead [18--

SPINNING IN APRIL

Moon in heaven's garden, among the clouds that wander, Crescent moon so young to see, above the April ways, Whiten, bloom not yet, not yet, within the twilight yonder; All my spinning is not done, for all the loitering days.

Oh, my heart has two wild wings that ever would be flying!

Oh, my heart's a meadow-lark that ever would be free!

Well it is that I must spin until the light be dying; Well it is the little wheel must turn all day for me!

All the hill-tops beckon, and beyond the western meadows Something calls me ever, calls me ever, low and clear: A little tree as young as I, the coming summer shadows,-- The voice of running waters that I ever thirst to hear.

Oftentime the plea of it has set my wings a-beating; Oftentimes it coaxes, as I sit in weary-wise, Till the wild life hastens out to wild things all entreating, And leaves me at the spinning-wheel, with dark, unseeing eyes.

Josephine Preston Peabody [1874-1922]

SONG: ON MAY MORNING

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 dost 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.

John Milton [1608-1674]

A MAY BURDEN

Though meadow-ways as I did tread, The corn grew in great l.u.s.tihead, And hey! the beeches burgeoned.

By G.o.ddes fay, by G.o.ddes fay!

It is the month, the jolly month, It is the jolly month of May.

G.o.d ripe the wines and corn, I say, And wenches for the marriage-day, And boys to teach love's comely play.

By G.o.ddes fay, by G.o.ddes fay!

It is the month, the jolly month, It is the jolly month of May.

As I went down by lane and lea, The daisies reddened so, pardie!

"Blushets!" I said, "I well do see, By G.o.ddes fay, by G.o.ddes fay!

The thing ye think of in this month, Heigho! this jolly month of May."

As down I went by rye and oats, The blossoms smelt of kisses; throats Of birds turned kisses into notes; By G.o.ddes fay, by G.o.ddes fay!

The kiss it is a growing flower, I trow, this jolly month of May.

G.o.d send a mouth to every kiss, Seeing the blossom of this bliss By gathering doth grow, certes!

By G.o.ddes fay, by G.o.ddes fay!

Thy brow-garland pushed all aslant Tells--but I tell not, wanton May!

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the G.o.d unshorn.

See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colors through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; Nay! not so much as out of bed; When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, When as a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, And t.i.tan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimmed with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't?

Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May.

A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home.

Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and wooed and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time.

We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapor or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again: So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night.

Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]