May Morning
Over all the watered vale
Shadows of the clouds trail:
Then the sun laughs out, and sheen
Runs like joy across the green.
Young the leaf is, young the flower;
Radiant the beeches tower,
A million tremblings all as one
Dancing forth into the sun.
Above the sound of hidden brooks
Birds sprinkle songs on coppice—nooks,
Each his private happy note,
With small bright eye and rippled throat.
England, through whose fields I stray
In this heavenly—coloured May,
England, lost in histories
Older than her oldest trees,
With nested hamlets, each of them
Flavoured like its ancient name;
England, where my blood began
And moulded childhood into man,
Comes to—day before my eyes
Like a new—found paradise.
Yet I wonder not at this
Wonder, that is half of bliss.
I have looked into Love’s eyes
Long, and Love has made me wise.
As when first one face I knew
And our lips together drew,
Old in love, my heart to—day
Is young as the young leaves of May.
Toller Porcorum
