By Helen Hunt Jackson

O Month when they who love must love and wed!  Were one to go to worlds where May is naught,  And seek to tell the memories he had brought  From earth of thee, what were most fitly said?  I know not if the rosy showers shed From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought  In fields, or if the robin’s call be fraught The most with thy delight.   Perhaps they read  Thee best who in the ancient time did say  Thou wert the sacred month unto the old:  No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day  So subtly sweet as memories which unfold In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie,  To sun themselves once more before they die. 

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