May (continued)

Birds sing and build, and Nature scorns alone
On May's young festival to be a widow;
The children too have pleasures all their own,
In gathering lady-smocks along the meadow.
The little brook sings loud among the pebbles,
So very loud, that water-flowers, which lie
Where many a silver curdle boils and dribbles,
Dance too with joy as it goes singing by.
Among the pasture mole-hills maidens stoop,
To pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms;
The greensward's littered o'er with buttercups,
And white-thorns, they are breaking down with blossoms!
'Tis Nature's livery for the bonny May,
Who keeps her court, and all have holiday.