There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May's in Milton,
May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer,
Thomson,
Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books:— She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
May's at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.
