On the Wye in May

Now is the perfect moment of the year.
Half naked branches, half a mist of green,

Vivid and delicate the slopes appear;
The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen,

And in the temperate sun we feel no fear;
Of all the hours which shall be and have been,

It is the briefest as it is most dear,
It is the dearest as the shortest seen.

O it was best, belovèd, at the first.—
Our hands met gently, and our meeting

Was steady; on our senses scarce had burst
The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight. . .

I seek that clime, unknown, without a name,
Where first and best and last shall be the same.