Springtime is a season of renewal, and there’s no better way to celebrate it than with poetry.
May, in particular, is a month that brings about a sense of joy and rejuvenation as nature awakens from its winter slumber.
From famous May poems to short and sweet verses, there are plenty of options for those looking to celebrate the season with verse.
From the natural beauty of blooming flowers to the sense of renewal that comes with the arrival of spring, there are many reasons to celebrate May with verse.
So here are some blooming poems on May for you to read.
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Funny May Poems
May has inspired poets for centuries, resulting in a rich collection of literature that captures the essence of this magical month. Let’s read some interesting poems on May.
1. Desperate for a Date
by Chris Hagy
All day long the little bird cries
Over and over again he tries
Full array for all the ladies passing by
Can’t they see he’s found a home
Where little babies can be grown
But he cannot do it alone
He’s desperate for a date
He really needs a mate
In month of May it’s not too late
On the little red house there sits a perch
Where on and off he chirps and chirps
But all the ladies only flirt
So alas this tale has but a sad end
As the little house sits with no one to attend
For it seems his services he could not lend
2. Month of Maying
by Thomas Morley
Now is the month of maying,
When merry lads are playing . . .
Each with his bonny lass
Upon the greeny grass.
Fa la la la la la la la la.
3. Maybe in May
by Earnest Musings
Maybe I’ll get an iPhone for my birthday
Ah…on the other hand, I’d like to get an iced coffee
Yeah – I’ll just accept my water
Be honest, David – I’m a brat and a smarty pants
Enjoy your break time and kick back…chill for a time …
I’m a little nervous – I feel that my writing’s are
Not that impressive – maybe in May,
May I ask him for a free lemonade?
And yes – I get a free lemonade
Yes!! Maybe in May, I might get a part-time job
or I might be a famous poet – someday…someday…
4. Rapture of May 21st, 2011
by Renee Kelly
“It is the end of the world”, they cry
“Those not saved will surely die!”
Never mind the fun fact
Previous dates inexact
Get the marshmallows out for the fry!
Famous May Poems
Some of the most renowned poets throughout history have written about May, exploring its beauty. These famous poems about May have captured the hearts and minds of readers for generations.
1. Early May
by John Burroughs
The time that hints the coming leaf,
When buds are dropping chaff and scale,
And, wafted from the greening vale,
Are pungent odors, keen as grief.
Now shad-bush wears a robe of white,
And orchards hint a leafy screen;
While willows drop their veils of green
Above the limpid waters bright.
New songsters come with every morn,
And whippoorwill is overdue,
While spice bush gold is coined anew
Before her tardy leaves are born.
The cowslip now with radiant face
Makes mimic sunshine in the shade,
Anemone is not afraid,
Although she trembles in her place.
Now adder’s-tongue new gilds the mould,
The ferns unroll their woolly coils,
And honey-bee begins her toils
Where maple trees their fringe unfold.
The goldfinch dons his summer coat,
The wild bee drones her mellow bass,
And butterflies of hardy race
In genial sunshine bask and float.
The Artist now is sketching in
The outlines of his broad design
So soon to deepen line on line,
Till June and summer days begin.
Now Shadow soon will pitch her tent
Beneath the trees in grove and field,
And all the wounds of life be healed,
By orchard bloom and lilac scent.
2. Month of May
by Minerva Agriam
Lucky is the man born upon this month,
Green surroundings, beautiful bloomings.
Flowers and plants, dogs and cats,
Happy munchings of cows on plants.
Powdery puffs of golden bushes,
Spread, flying up along the windy tops.
Going up a blue spread of gentle clouds,
Where the sun smiles upon upon boys and girls.
Incircling maypole stand bouncing little kids,
Admiring Reyna Elena beauties paraded.
Before May Flower ends, young kids baptised
Confirmed or having the first commonions.
All these colorful activities where all are free
From rainy days, are found on the month of May.
The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed,
That spangle the woods and dance—
No gleam of gold that the twilights hold
Is strong as their necromance:
For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead,
The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed
Are the May’s own utterance.
The azure stars of the bluet bloom,
That sprinkle the woodland’s trance—
No blink of blue that a cloud lets through
Is sweet as their countenance:
For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
Are the light of the May’s own glance.
With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
In a sunbeam of a gown;
She needs but think and the blossoms wink,
But look, and they shower down.
By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,
With her wondering words and her looks she comes
Like a little maid to town.
4. First of May
by Nicholas Lester
The winter’s breath of snow and sleet
No longer on our faces beat,
And loungers have resumed the street;
To work the house-wife quick will go
House cleaning, that the world may know
She is to dirt a deadly foe.
The house she’ll rummage through through,
The bed-rooms and the closets too;
Mid-floor their contents she will pile,
And greet her lord with winning smile
While she demands a carpet new.
Each table, bedstead, stand and chair.
Of scrubbing gets an ample share,
And soon the spouse becomes aware
The carpets from the floors are ripped,
And he must put them out to air;
(Let him remonstrate if he dare,)
And see that they are whipp’d.
The bureaus, brackets, stands and cases,
Must occupy some new-found places
For the ensuing year;
The parlor stove removed must be,
The pipes from soot be shaken free;
The pictures from the walls be taken;
The blankets, rugs and bed-quilts shaken;
And every nook with suds be drenched,
The kitchen fire remaining quench’d,
For dinner he in vain may look,
And should he grumble at the cook,
A flea gets in his ear.
by Hilaire Belloc
This is the laughing-eyed amongst them all:
My lady’s month. A season of young things.
She rules the light with harmony, and brings
The year’s first green upon the beeches tall.
How often, where long creepers wind and fall
Through the deep woods in noonday wanderings,
I’ve heard the month, when she to echo sings,
I’ve heard the month make merry madrigal.
How often, bosomed in the breathing strong
Of mosses and young flowerets, have I lain
And watched the clouds, and caught the sheltered song –
Which it were more than life to hear again –
Of those small birds that pipe it all day long
Not far from Marly by the memoried Seine.
6. The May After
by Ada A. Mosher
They say that it is May, and, dear, I see
Abloom the lilac and the Judas-tree;
And in the waking woodlands, fluttering,
Like bevy of white butterflies awing.
Glints here and there the dogwood’s blossoming.
But O, for all to me—’t is May to me
No more than this worn picture, dear, is thee;
Thee, whose warm cheek pressed close against mine own—
May’s image this—her soul with thine is flown.
And May—why I remember, May was young—
And now I stand these wildwood flowers among;
But they are older than the forest trees—
As old as earth is—I can see in these
All of creation’s withered centuries!
Aye, they are parched and dry as desert sand—
Grave-grass alone is young in this lone land—
Ah, no, they thoughtless speak, beloved, who say,
Forgetting thou art gone, that this is May.
7. May Day
by Sara Teasdale
A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Red small leaves of the maple
Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
The pear trees stand.
Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;
For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?
by Edward Hovell-Thurlow
May! queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music
Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers?
Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire;
Thou hast the golden bee
Ripened with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth’s grassy floor
With new desire.
Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame and free-livers;
Doubt not, thy music too
In the deep rivers;
And the whole plumy flight
Warbhng the day and night—
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!
Inspirational May Poems
May is a time for growth, both literally and figuratively. It’s a season of hope, of new beginnings, and endless possibilities. May inspirational poems capture the spirit of this time of the year.
by Henry Sylvester Cornwell
Come walk with me along this willowed lane,
Where, like lost coinage from some miser’s store,
The golden dandelions more and more
Glow, as the warm sun kisses them again!
For this is May! who with a daisy chain
Leads on the laughing Hours; for now is o’er
Long winter’s trance. No longer rise and roar
His forest-wrenching blasts. The hopeful swain,
Along the furrow, sings behind his team;
Loud pipes the redbreast—troubadour of spring,
And vocal all the morning copses ring;
More blue the skies in lucent lakelets gleam;
And the glad earth, caressed by murmuring showers,
Wakes like a bride, to deck herself with flowers!
by Ruby Archer
“Do I know that every day
Brings us nearer Maying-time?”
Yes, José. Before the earth
Thrills to give the first flowers birth,
When the impulse in the clay
Flames along the lowest root
Of the perfume-dreaming thyme,—
Long ere prophecy of fruit
On the budding bough’s appearing,—
Feels my heart the May-time nearing.
When the sun rides northerly,
From the mountains of my heart
Melts the winter weight of snow,
Torrents rush and overflow,
And where’er a flower could be
Leaps a loveliness to air.
Though I dwelt from life apart
In a dungeon deep and bare,
In my heart I should be hearing—,
“Lo, the Maying-time is nearing—
May, sweet May, sweet May is nearing!”
3. May Has Decked the World
by Annette Wynne
May has decked the world, that we
May bring the brave on land or sea
Earth’s glory on Memorial Day,
The lovely meadow gifts of May.
Brave dead, who saved our country, we
Come with flowers; O living brave, on land or sea,
We wave the bright Red, White and Blue
And bring May meadow gifts to you!
4. A May Morning
by Ellwood Roberts
The mist of early morning
Has slowly passed away,
A scene of rarest beauty
Unfolds where late it lay.
What can surpass in sweetness
The charm that dwells in May?
The wondrous fresh leaves glisten
In sunshine glad and bright;
The birds, in merry humor,
Give thanks for Spring’s sweet light;
The miracle of May-time
Bursts full upon the sight.
The whole green earth rejoices
In warmth and light to-day;
The scent of myriad blossoms
Is wafted far away.
Where is there other brightness
Like that we find in May?
by Rebecca Hey
The clouds “have wept their fill” the whole night long,
And what a change is wrought! But yesterday,
We look’d around, and scarce could deem that May,
The poet’s theme,—the month of flowers and song,—
Could do her own sweet lineaments such wrong
As to frown on us like a very shrew:
To-day, we feel what poets sing is true;
Like them, we hail her reign, and wish it long.
See, how each budding spray, each floweret fair
Retains the liquid treasure! how the trees,
Lest summer should o’ertake them unaware,
Haste to unfold their leaflets to the breeze;
While in the orchard every moss-grown stem,
And sapling shoot, a thousand blossoms gem!
Short May Poems
Sometimes, the simplest words can be the most powerful. Short poetries about May distill the essence of the season into a few lines, capturing its beauty and its energy with a clarity and precision that is hard to match.
1. Ode to May
by Peter Burn
Queen of months, supremely fair,
Cloth’d with garments rich and rare,
None in beauty can compare
With thee, sweet May.
Lovely month, thou bringest mirth,
Spreadest sweetness o;er the earth,
Causest Nature to give birth
To fruits and flowers.
Thou art lov’d by young and old.
Joys for each thou dost unfold;
Never shall our hearts grow cold
To thee, sweet May.
2. The First of May
by Annette Wynne
If I could stay up late no doubt
I’d catch the buds just bursting out;
And up from every hidden root
Would jump a tiny slender shoot;
I wonder how seeds learn the way,
They always know the very day—
The pretty, happy first of May;
If I could stay up then, no doubt
I’d catch the buds just bursting out.
by Annette Wynne
“Moon of Green Leaves,” so
They called you long ago,
So the Indian child at play
Spoke your name, dear Month of May.
4. May Baskets
by Annette Wynne
In other lands the children bring
May baskets for the first of spring,
And hang them on a lady’s door
To say that spring is here once more;
And when the lady comes to see
What all the sound outside may be,
She’s glad; that’s the way
The Swedish children keep the May.
But we can do kind things and sing
And tell our way the joy of spring.
5. ‘Tis May Now in New England
by Bliss Carman
‘Tis May now in New England
And through the open door
I see the creamy breakers,
I hear the hollow roar.
Back to the golden marshes
Comes summer at full tide,
But not the golden comrade
Who was the summer’s pride.
6. May Snow
by Annette Wynne
May is a blue and gold and green,
Not a trace of cloud is seen;
Yet I find along the way
Snowflakes falling all the day.
Dainty snowflakes fragrant white,
And there’s not a cloud in sight,
Snow you cannot truly be—
You’re just petals from the tree!
by Sara Teasdale
The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.
Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.
Long May Poems
For those who prefer a more in-depth exploration of the season, there are plenty of long poetries about May to choose from. These works take the reader on a journey through the sights, sounds, and emotions of springtime.
1. A Sleet-Storm in May
by Madison Cawein
On southern winds shot through with amber light,
Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white,
The lily-fingered Spring came o’er the hills,
Waking the crocus and the daffodils.
O’er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh—
The maples sang and flung their banners high,
Their crimson-tasselled pennons, and the elm
Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.
Beneath the musky rot of Autumn’s leaves,
Under the forest’s myriad naked eaves,
Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,
Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew.
With timid tread adown the barren wood
Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood
White-mantled Winter wagging his white head,
Stormy his brow and stormily he said:
‘The God of Terror, and the King of Storm,
Must I remind thee how my iron arm
Raised my red standards ‘mid these conquered bowers,
Turning their green to crimson?—Thou, with flowers,
Thou wouldst supplant me! nay! usurp my throne!—
Audacious one!’—And at her breast he tossed
A bitter javelin of ice and frost;
And left her lying on th’ unfeeling mould.
The fragile blossoms, gathered in the fold
Of her warm bosom, fell in desolate rows
About her beauty, and, like fragrant snows,
Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet,
Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweet
That died there. Lilacs, musky of the May,
And bluer violets and snowdrops lay
Entombed in crystal, icy dim and fair,
Like teardrops scattered in her heavenly hair.
Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain!
Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.—
We should not question such; a higher power
Knows best what bud is ripest or what flower,
And silently plucks it at the fittest hour.
by Edith Willis Linn
A white shower falls from the apple tree,
Good-bye good-bye, sweet May!
I will not mourn at beauty lost,
For there comes as fair a day;
But such a wealth of sweets is thine,
Such blooms of flower and spray,
We can but sigh that gaining June,
We still must lose our May.
Only for once in the whole long year
Are the trees so robed in bloom;
Only for once the lilac flowers
Yield up such rare perfume;
Only for once the birds sing forth
A melody so gay;
The sweetest promise of the year
Comes with the flowers of May.
We dream of these days through the winter long,
When dreary lies the snow,
And picture forth what joys were ours
In the Mays of long ago;
But when the time brings forth the bloom
From the buds of leaf and spray,
We find our loveliest dreams were vain
To show the sweets of May.
And waking morn, with golden sun,
Is filled with gladdest sound,
The chords of music seem to thrill
Along the very ground,
For insect life awakes and moves
To join the roundelay
That breaks along the happy earth
In the fair time of May.
Our hearts forget from year to year
How pink the apple bloom,
We cannot carry in our mind
Such wealth of rich perfume;
At every step we feel surprise
At the glory of the day,
And wonder if the world has been
As fair in every May.
But time has in its bosom much
To give for our delight.
There is a promise in the flower
So beautiful and white.
The green fields mean a fair, rich yield
When spring has passed away,
And the birds will know a deeper joy
Than comes to them in May.
Fall down, fall down, oh! shower of white
And make the ground like snow,
For underneath those petals fair
The fruit is hid, I know.
And hasten on, oh! golden sun,
There’s joy with every day
Our world would not be half as rich
If life could be all May.
3. In May
by John Burroughs
When grosbeaks show a damask rose
Amid the cherry blossoms white,
And early robins’ nests disclose
To loving eyes a joyous sight;
When columbines like living coals
Are gleaming ‘gainst the lichened rocks,
And at the foot of mossy boles
Are young anemones in flocks;
When ginger-root beneath twin leaves
Conceals its dusky floral bell,
And showy orchid shyly weaves
In humid nook its fragrant spell;
When dandelion’s coin of gold
Anew is minted on the lawn,
And apple trees their buds unfold,
While warblers storm the groves at dawn;
When such delights greet eye and ear,
Then strike thy tasks and come away:
It is the joy-month of the year,
And onward sweeps the tide of May.
When farmhouse doors stand open wide
To welcome in the balmy air,
When truant boys plunge in the tide,
And school-girls knots of violets wear;
When grapevines crimson in the shoot,
Like fin of trout in meadow stream,
And morning brings the thrush’s flute
Where dappled lilies nod and dream;
When varied tints outline the trees,
Like figures sketched upon a screen,
And all the forest shows degrees
Of tawny red and yellow-green;
When purple finches sing and soar,
Then drop to perch on open wing,
With vernal gladness running o’er—
The feathered lyrist of the spring:
When joys like these salute the sense,
And bloom and perfume fill the day,
Then waiting long hath recompense,
And all the world is glad with May.
4. The Woods in May
by Ellwood Roberts
There dwells a subtle fragrance
Within the woods of May,
That baffles all description,
Inviting us to stay.
Aroma of the spring-time.
Of bursting buds it tells,
Of wild flowers bright unfolding
From out their tiny cells.
The new-born leaves a tender
And brilliant green display;
When come the heats of summer,
It quickly flies away.
Among the trees we wander,
With sense of keen delight;
We may not feel it later,
Though sunshine be as bright.
Sweet Nature’s resurrection
From Winter’s ice and snow,
Fills woods of May with beauty
Beyond all else we know.
The fragrant honeysuckle,
And dogwood flowers white,
Bloom here in all their glory,
A vision of delight.
How natural to linger
Among the woods of May,
So many wonders are there,
Inviting us to stay.
Each bush and tree has treasures
Of leaf, or bud, or flower;
No art there is like Nature’s,
When she exerts her power.
A tender, new-born glory,
The leaflets all display,
There dwells a subtle fragrance
Around our path to-day;
It bids us pause and linger,
Ere it be gone for aye.
What joy and peace and sweetness
Within the woods of May!
by John Clare
Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather cock
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And cock his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Crack[ing] his whip in starts of joy
A happy dirty driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short not[e] of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
Mong rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron weed’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair-and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’2 middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white breasts hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds-slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘mong sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain1
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded cops~e1
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ‘sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
Bum barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The ass beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers-May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking balls to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen
6. May is Mary’s Month
May is Mary’s month, and I
Muse at that and wonder why:
Her feasts follow reason,
Dated due to season—
Candlemas, Lady Day;
But the Lady Month, May,
Why fasten that upon her,
With a feasting in her honour?
Is it only its being brighter
Than the most are must delight her?
Is it opportunest
And flowers finds soonest?
Ask of her, the mighty mother:
Her reply puts this other
Question: What is Spring?—
Growth in every thing—
Flesh and fleece, fur and feather,
Grass and greenworld all together;
Throstle above her nested
Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin
Forms and warms the life within;
And bird and blossom swell
In sod or sheath or shell.
All things rising, all things sizing
Mary sees, sympathising
With that world of good,
Their magnifying of each its kind
With delight calls to mind
How she did in her stored
Magnify the Lord.
Well but there was more than this:
Spring’s universal bliss
Much, had much to say
To offering Mary May.
Bloom lights the orchard-apple
And thicket and thorp are merry
With silver-surfed cherry
And azuring-over greybell makes
Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes
And magic cuckoocall
Caps, clears, and clinches all—
This ecstasy all through mothering earth
Tells Mary her mirth till Christ’s birth
To remember and exultation
In God who was her salvation.
7. Ode, Composed on a May
by William Wordsworth
While from the purpling east departs
The star that led the dawn,
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
For May is on the lawn.
A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
Foreran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,
Shakes off that pearly shower.
All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
Tempers the year’s extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o’er noon-day,
Like morning’s dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
The tremulous heart excite;
And hums the balmy air to still
The balance of delight.
Time was, blest Power! when youth and maids
At peep of dawn would rise,
And wander forth, in forest glades
Thy birth to solemnize.
Though mute the song—to grace the rite
Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Thy Spirit triumphs o’er the slight;
Man changes, but not Thou!
Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
In love’s disport employ;
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things
Awake to silent joy:
Queen art thou still for each gay plant
Where the slim wild deer roves;
And served in depths where fishes haunt
Their own mysterious groves.
Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,
Instinctive homage pay;
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath
To honor thee, sweet May!
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs
Behold a smokeless sky,
Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares
To open a bright eye.
And if, on this thy natal morn,
The pole, from which thy name
Hath not departed, stands forlorn
Of song and dance and game;
Still from the village-green a vow
Aspires to thee addrest,
Wherever peace is on the brow,
Or love within the breast.
Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach
The soul to love the more;
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach
That never loved before.
Stript is the haughty one of pride,
The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
In flow the joyous year.
Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse
The service to prolong!
To yon exulting thrush the Muse
Entrusts the imperfect song;
His voice shall chant, in accents clear,
Throughout the live-long day,
Till the first silver star appear,
The sovereignty of May.
May Poems That Rhyme
Rhyming May poems add a musical quality to the already lyrical language of poetry, creating a sense of harmony and rhythm that is hard to resist. These poems about May with rhyming words are a must-read!
1. Blue-Eyed Grass of May
by Annette Wynne
Star, high star, far in the blue,
I have stars more near than you,
Shining from the blue-eyed grass,
Peeping at me as I pass.
Star, high star, far in the blue,
I wish that I could pick you, too,
I know I’d love you better, star,
If you were not so high and far.
My little friendly stars are found
Right close to me upon the ground;
You shine all night, they shine all day-
They are the blue-eyed grass of May!
2. Home Pictures in May
by John Clare
The sunshine bathes in clouds of many hues
And morning’s feet are gemmed with early dews,
Warm daffodils about the garden beds
Peep through their pale slim leaves their golden heads,
Sweet earthly nuns of Spring; the gosling broods
In coats of sunny green about the road
Waddle in extasy; and in rich moods
The old hen leads her flickering chicks abroad,
Oft scuttling ‘neath her wings to see the kite
Hang wavering o’er them in the spring’s blue light.
The sparrows round their new nests chirp with glee
And sweet the robin Spring’s young luxury shares
Tootling its song in feathery gooseberry tree
While watching worms the gardener’s spade unbares.
3. The Merry Month of May
by Thomas Dekker
O The month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!
O, and then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer’s Queen.
Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,
The sweetest singer in all the forest quire,
Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love’s tale:
Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier.
But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo;
See where she sitteth; come away, my joy:
Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckoo
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.
O, the month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green;
And then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer’s Queen.
by Christina Rossetti
I cannot tell you how it was;
But this I know: it came to pass
Upon a bright and breezy day
When May was young; ah, pleasant May!
As yet the poppies were not born
Between the blades of tender corn;
The last eggs had not hatched as yet,
Nor any bird foregone its mate.
I cannot tell you what it was;
But this I know: it did but pass.
It passed away with sunny May,
With all sweet things it passed away,
And left me old, and cold, and gray.
5. The Village May-Day
by J. R. Eastwood
Piled up with sacks, to yonder town
The great mill waggon lumbers down:
Drawn by three horses, tall and strong,
The great mill waggon rolls along.
The miller’s smock is clean and new,
And smart with ribbons, red and blue;
And tinkling bells on bridle rein
Have made the stately horses vain.
And every year the First of May
Is made the village holiday:
The school is closed: the children run
In meadows smiling with the sun.
And now before the mill they wait,
While some, impatient, climb the gate,
And shout with glee, when drawing near
The loudly rumbling wheels they hear.
And soon the horses loom in sight,
With gay rosettes, and harness bright,
While dose beside the leader’s head,
The miller walks with sturdy tread.
Long may the festive day come round
And find the miller hale and sound,
And may his goods increase, and still
The great wheel turn his busy mill.
6. The Trees
by The Trees
“The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.”
May Poems for Kids
May is a season that inspires wonder and excitement in children, making it the perfect subject for poetry. Children’s poems about May capture the magic of the season in language that is easy for young readers.
by Richard Barnfield
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made.
2. Month of May
by Stephen Foster
We roamed the fields and river sides,
When we are young and gay;
We chased the bees and plucked the flowers,
In the merry, merry month of May.
May is the month
Of sunshine and flowers
Birds in their nests
And one or two showers.
Games to play and kites to fly
Or just looking at the sky
We could spend a year this way
If the year were made of May
by Ellwood Roberts
The happy birds trill forth a glad thanksgiving,
Their voices ring throughout the livelong day;
At thy approach a sweeter joy in living,
We feel, oh, May!
The opening buds, the wind so gently blowing,
The golden sunshine and the flowers impart
New zest to life, and fill to overflowing
The thankful heart.
We look abroad; we see the wheat-fields waving,
The blossom-laden trees on every side;
Full seems our joy to-day; no restless craving
Up from the valley comes an echo pleasant,
The music of the sweetly flowing rill;
Of all the links that bind the past and present,
This brightest still.
May Poems about Sunshine and Flowers
Sunshine and flowers are two of the most iconic symbols of spring, and they feature prominently in May poetry. These May blossom poems celebrate the natural beauty of the season, exploring the ways in which the world comes to life in the wake of winter’s dormancy.
1. The Month of May
by Sherif Monem
I love this great month of May
It is the month of fresh flowers
Thanks for these April showers
It brought garden full of colors
The month of May is outstanding
It is the fifth month of the year
after January, February, March and April
The month of May happily came
Soon June will come in some hurry
Signalling half year almost passed
I do not like these months pass quickly
Let us enjoy them as sweet and no rush
Let’s have them fill us with happiness
Let’s enjoy the sun and the fresh air
So month of May please go slow by
Do not forget the flowers and aroma
The month of May is basket of flowers
The Marigold, the Azalea and Jasmin
The magnolia, Auburn and Yarrow
Welcome, Welcome the month of May
2. In Early May
by Bliss Carman
O my dear, the world to-day
Is more lovely than a dream!
Magic hints from far away
Haunt the woodland, and the stream
Murmurs in his rocky bed
Things that never can be said.
Starry dogwood is in flower,
Gleaming through the mystic woods.
It is beauty’s perfect hour
In the wild spring solitudes.
Now the orchards in full blow
Shed their petals white as snow.
All the air is honey-sweet
With the lilacs white and red,
Where the blossoming branches meet
In an arbor overhead.
And the laden cherry trees
Murmur with the hum of bees.
All the earth is fairy green,
And the sunlight filmy gold,
Full of ecstasies unseen,
Full of mysteries untold.
Who would not be out-of-door,
Now the spring is here once more!
3. May Is Pretty, May Is Mild
by Annette Wynne
May is pretty, May is mild,
Dances like a happy child;
Sing out, robin; spring out, flowers;
April went with all her showers,
And the world is green again;
Come out, children, to the glen,
To the meadows, to the wood,
For the earth is clean and good,
And the sky is clear and blue,
And bright May is calling you!
May is pretty, May is mild,
Dances like a happy child,
On a blessèd holiday,
Come out, children, join the play!
4. Calling the Violet
by Lucy Larcom
Dear Little Violet,
Don’t be afraid!
Lift your blue eyes
From the rock’s mossy shade!
All the birds call for you
Out of the sky;
May is here, waiting,
And here, too, am I.
Come, pretty Violet,
Come, for without you
May isn’t May.
Down through the sunshine
Wings flutter and fly;—
Quick, little Violet,
Open your eye!
Hear the rain whisper,
“Dear Violet, come!”
How can you stay
In your underground home?
Up in the pine-boughs
For you the winds sigh.
Homesick to see you,
Are we—May and I.
5. In May
by Alice Baker
The rain that’s falling soft and slow
Has set the tulip bed aglow,
A flaming mass of color.
And oh, the yellow and the red
Against the blackness of the bed—
The garden seems enchanted.
And how the tiny rose leaves shine,
So new and wet, and on the vine
A tiny yellow warbler.
And in my heart I bend my knee
To Him who made such things to be—
So exquisite and tender.
6. May Has Such a Winsome Way
by Annette Wynne
Has such a winsome way,
Loves to love and laugh and play,
To be pretty all the day,
Never loves to sulk and frown,
As April does; when rain comes down,
May is sorry, says: “Rain, please
Go away soon, flowers and trees
Love the merry shining sun,
Want to laugh now, every one,
For the happy time’s begun.”
All you people who love play,
Love to love the livelong day,
Do you not love May
With her winsome way?
End of May Poems
As May draws to a close and the first hints of summer begin to appear, the mood shifts from one of exuberant joy to one of reflection and contemplation. End of May poems captures this transition.
1. The End of May
by Katharine Lee Bates
The fragrant air is full of down,
Of floating, fleecy things
From some forgotten fairy town
Where all the folk wear wings.
Or else the snowflakes, soft arrayed
In dainty suits of lace,
Have ventured back in masquerade,
Spring’s festival to grace.
Or these, perchance, are fleets of fluff,
Laden with rainbow seeds,
That count their cargo rich enough
Though all its wealth be weeds.
Or come they from the golden trees,
Where dancing blossoms were,
That now are drifting on the breeze,
Sweet ghosts of gossamer?
2. The Shepherd’s Calendar – June
by John Clare
Now summer is in flower and natures hum
Is never silent round her sultry bloom
Insects as small as dust are never done
Wi’ glittering dance and reeling in the sun
And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee
Are never weary of their melody
Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine
Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine
That lift athirst their slender throated flowers
Agape for dew falls and for honey showers
These round each bush in sweet disorder run
And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun
Where its silk netting lace on twigs and leaves
The mottld spider at eves leisure weaves
That every morning meet the poets eye
Like faireys dew wet dresses hung to dry
The wheat swells into ear and leaves below
The may month wild flowers and their gaudy show
Bright carlock bluecap and corn poppy red
Which in such clouds of colors wid [e] ly spread
That at the sun rise might to fancys eye
Seem to reflect the many colord sky
And leverets seat and lark and partridge nest
It leaves a schoolboys height in snugger rest
And oer the weeders labour overgrows
Who now in merry groups each morning goes
To willow skirted meads wi fork and rake
The scented hay cocks in long rows to make
Where their old visitors in russet brown
The haytime butterflyes dance up and down
And gads that teaze like whasps the timid maid
And drive the herdboys cows to pond and shade
Who when his dogs assistance fails to stop
Is forcd his half made oaten pipes to drop
And start and hallo thro the dancing heat
To keep their gadding tumult from the wheat
Who in their rage will dangers overlook
And leap like hunters oer the pasture brook
Brushing thro blossomd beans in maddening haste
And ‘stroying corn they scarce can stop to taste
Labour pursues its toil in weary mood
And feign woud rest wi shadows in the wood
The mowing gangs bend oer the beeded grass
Where oft the gipseys hungry journeying ass
Will turn its wishes from the meadow paths
Listning the rustle of the falling swaths
The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales
And down the suncrackt furrow slowly trails
Oft seeking when athirst the brooks supply
Where brushing eager the brinks bushes bye
For coolest water he oft brakes the rest
Of ring dove brooding oer its idle nest
And there as loath to leave the swaily place
He’ll stand to breath and whipe his burning face
The shepherds idle hours are over now
Nor longer leaves him neath the hedgrow bough
On shadow pillowd banks and lolling stile
Wilds looses now their summer friends awhile
Shrill whistles barking dogs and chiding scold
Drive bleating sheep each morn from fallow fold
To wash pits where the willow shadows lean
Dashing them in their fold staind coats to clean
Then turnd on sunning sward to dry agen
They drove them homeward to the clipping pen
In hurdles pent where elm or sycamore
Shut out the sun-or in some threshing floor
There they wi scraps of songs and laugh and tale
Lighten their anual toils while merry ale
Goes round and gladdens old mens hearts to praise
The thread bare customs of old farmers days
Who while the sturting sheep wi trembling fears
Lies neath the snipping of his harmless sheers
Recalls full many a thing by bards unsung
And pride forgot-that reignd when he was young
How the hugh bowl was in the middle set
At breakfast time as clippers yearly met
Filld full of frumity where yearly swum
The streaking sugar and the spotting plumb
Which maids coud never to the table bring
Without one rising from the merry ring
To lend a hand who if twas taen amiss
Woud sell his kindness for a stolen kiss
The large stone pitcher in its homly trim
And clouded pint horn wi its copper rim
Oer which rude healths was drank in spirits high
From the best broach the cellar woud supply
While sung the ancient swains in homly ryhmes
Songs that were pictures of the good old times
When leathern bottles held the beer nut brown
That wakd the sun wi songs and sung him down
Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail
Till toiling sheers gain ground upon the tale
And brakes it off-when from the timid sheep
The fleece is shorn and wi a fearfull leap
He starts-while wi a pressing hand
His sides are printed by the tarry brand
Shaking his naked skin wi wondering joys
And fresh ones are tugd in by sturdy boys
Who when theyre thrown down neath the sheering swain
Will wipe his brow and start his tale again
Tho fashions haughtv frown hath thrown aside
Half the old forms simplicity supplyd
Yet their are some prides winter deigns to spare
Left like green ivy when the trees are bare
And now when sheering of the flocks are done
Some ancient customs mixd wi harmless fun
Crowns the swains merry toils-the timid maid
Pleasd to be praisd and yet of praise affraid
Seeks her best flowers not those of woods and fields
But such as every farmers garden yield
Fine cabbage roses painted like her face
And shining pansys trimmd in golden lace
And tall tuft larkheels featherd thick wi flowers
And woodbines climbing oer the door in bowers
And London tufts of many a mottld hue
And pale pink pea and monkshood darkly blue
And white and purple jiliflowers that stay
Lingering in blossom summer half away
And single blood walls of a lucious smell
Old fashiond flowers which huswives love so well
And columbines stone blue or deep night brown
Their honey-comb-like blossoms hanging down
Each cottage gardens fond adopted child
Tho heaths still claim them where they yet grow wild
Mong their old wild companions summer blooms
Furze brake and mozzling ling and golden broom
Snap dragons gaping like to sleeping clowns
And ‘clipping pinks’ (which maidens sunday gowns
Full often wear catcht at by tozing chaps)
Pink as the ribbons round their snowy caps
‘Bess in her bravery’ too of glowing dyes
As deep as sunsets crimson pillowd skyes
And majoram notts sweet briar and ribbon grass
And lavender the choice of every lass
And sprigs of lads love all familiar names
Which every garden thro the village claims
These the maid gathers wi a coy delight
And tyes them up in readiness for night
Giving to every swain tween love and shame
Her ‘clipping poseys’ as their yearly claim
And turning as he claims the custom kiss
Wi stifld smiles half ankering after bliss
She shrinks away and blushing calls it rude
But turns to smile and hopes to be pursued
While one to whom the seeming hint applied
Follows to claim it and is not denyd
No doubt a lover for within his coat
His nosegay owns each flower of better sort
And when the envious mutter oer their beer
And nodd the secret to his neighbor near
Raising the laugh to make the mutter known
She blushes silent and will not disown
And ale and songs and healths and merry ways
Keeps up a shadow of old farmers days
But the old beachen bowl that once supplyd
Its feast of frumity is thrown aside
And the old freedom that was living then
When masters made them merry wi their men
Whose coat was like his neighbors russet brown
And whose rude speech was vulgar as his clown
Who in the same horn drank the rest among
And joind the chorus while a labourer sung
All this is past-and soon may pass away
The time torn remnant of the holiday
As proud distinction makes a wider space
Between the genteel and the vulgar race
Then must they fade as pride oer custom showers
Its blighting mildew on her feeble flowers
by Thomas Hardy
When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
“He was a man who used to notice such things?”
If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid’s soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
“To him this must have been a familiar sight.”
If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, “He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.”
If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
“He was one who had an eye for such mysteries?”
And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell’s boom,
“He hears it not now, but used to notice such things?”
4. The End of May
by William Morris
How the wind howls this morn
About the end of May,
And drives June on apace
To mock the world forlorn
And the world-s joy passed away
And my unlonged-for face!
The world-s joy passed away;
For no more may I deem
That any folk are glad
To see the dawn of day
Sunder the tangled dream
Wherein no grief they had.
Ah, through the tangled dream
Where others have no grief
Ever it fares with me
That fears and treasons stream
And dumb sleep slays belief
Whatso therein may be.
Sleep slayeth all belief
Until the hopeless light
Wakes at the birth of June
More lying tales to weave,
More love in woe-s despite,
More hope to perish soon.
In conclusion, May is a month that inspires poets and readers alike with its beauty, symbolism, and sense of renewal.
From famous May poems to short and sweet verses, there are countless works of poetry that capture the essence of this magical season.
Whether you prefer rhyming poems or longer explorations of the natural world, there is a May poem out there for everyone.
Poetry allows us to connect with the world in new and meaningful ways, reminding us of the power of language to inspire, comfort, and entertain.
So, let us embrace the season with open hearts and open minds, and allow the poems about May to fill us with a sense of wonder and joy.