Part 19

Yorkshire.

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Come listen awhile to what we shall say, Concerning the season, the month we call May; For the flowers they are springing, and the birds they do sing, And the baziers (auriculas) are sweet in the morning of May.

When the trees are in bloom, and the meadows are green, The sweet smiling cowslips are plain to be seen; The sweet ties of Nature, which we plainly do see, For the baziers are sweet in the morning of May.

Lancashire.

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Summer is near, and buttercups blow, And sunshine glimmers aloft; And winds play tunes which merrily flow, Though in melody mellow and soft; Then sing the song of the green spring-time, The season of promise and bloom, When buds have birth, and the gladdened earth Awakes from her wintry tomb.

Hogg.

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Flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Milton.

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OF GARDENS.

In May and June come pinks of all sorts, especially the blush pink; roses of all kinds, except the musk which comes later; honeysuckles, strawberries, bugloss, columbine, the French marigold, flos Africanus, cherry tree in fruit, ribes, figs in fruit, rasps, vine flowers, lavender in flowers, the sweet satyrian (orchis) with the white flower, herba muscaria (grape hyacinth), lilium convallium, the apple tree in blossom.

Bacon.

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A lovely morn, so still, so very still, It hardly seems a growing day of Spring, Though all the odorous buds are blossoming, And the small matin birds were glad and shrill Some hours ago; but now the woodland rill Murmurs along, the only vocal thing, Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing, And cons by fits and bits her evening trill.

Hartley Coleridge.

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If you sweep the house with blossomed broom in May, You're sure to sweep the head of the house away.

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Come out of doors! 'tis Spring! 'tis May! The trees be green, the fields be gay, The weather warm, the winter blast With all his train of clouds is past.

Mother of blossoms! and of all That's fair afield from Spring to Fall, The cuckoo, over white-waved seas, Do come to sing in thy green trees, And butterflies, in giddy flight, Do gleam the most by thy gay light.

W. Barnes.

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All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward: but all else of Heaven was pure Up to the sun, and May from verge to verge.

Tennyson.

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