V

O May! O month of months divinely dear, Which severest, amidst the toil and strife Of Nature’s round, as with a glittering knife, A perfect segment from the varying year! Month of entrancing spaces, wide and clear, Calling us to the open, thick with life, All leaf and lamb and freshness, welling, rife With blossom--can it be that thou art here? O that it were in some sweet Scottish strath, Backed by the mountains, watered, green and wide, Where the Tay laves in shallow crystal bath His pebbles, or the Forth’s meandering tide Receives Dumyat’s shadow o’er his path, And young light breaks down Ochill’s mottled side.

RASTATT, 8th May