#WingedWordsWindsday: 05/04/2022 -- The Merry Month of May!

 

WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 1, No. 27: May 4, 2022

 

The Merry Month of May

 

“May Is Pretty, May Is Mild”

By Annette Wynne (fl. ca. 1919-1922)

 

May is pretty, May is mild,

Dances like a happy child;

Sing out, robin; spring out, flowers;

April went with all her showers,

And the world is green again;

Come out, children, to the glen,

To the meadows, to the wood,

For the Earth is clean and good,

And the sky is clear and blue,

And bright May is calling you!

 

May is pretty, May is mild,

Dances like a happy child,

On a blessëd holiday,

Come out, children, join the play!

 

“May”

By Madison Cawein (1865-1914)

 

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed,

That spangle the woods and dance —

No gleam of gold that the twilights hold

Is strong as their necromance:

For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead,

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed

Are the May's own utterance.

 

The azure stars of the bluet bloom,

That sprinkle the woodland's trance —

No blink of blue that a cloud lets through

Is sweet as their countenance:

For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,

The azure stars of the bluet bloom

Are the light of the May's own glance.

 

With her wondering words and her looks she comes,

In a sunbeam of a gown;

She needs but think and the blossoms wink,

But look, and they shower down.

By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,

With her wondering words and her looks she comes

Like a little maid to town.

 

“In Early May”

By Bliss Carman (1861-1929)

 

O my dear, the world to-day

Is more lovely than a dream!

Magic hints from far away

Haunt the woodland, and the stream

Murmurs in his rocky bed

Things that never can be said.

 

Starry dogwood is in flower,

Gleaming through the mystic woods.

It is beauty's perfect hour

In the wild spring solitudes.

Now the orchards in full blow

Shed their petals white as snow.

 

All the air is honey-sweet

With the lilacs white and red,

Where the blossoming branches meet

In an arbor overhead.

And the laden cherry trees

Murmur with the hum of bees.

 

All the Earth is fairy green,

And the sunlight filmy gold,

Full of ecstasies unseen,

Full of mysteries untold.

Who would not be out-of-door,

Now the spring is here once more!

 

“Ode Composed on a May Morning”

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

 

While from the purpling east departs

The star that led the dawn,

Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,

For May is on the lawn.

A quickening hope, a freshening glee,

Foreran the expected Power,

Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,

Shakes off that pearly shower.

 

All Nature welcomes her whose sway

Tempers the year’s extremes;

Who scattereth lustres o’er noon-day,

Like morning’s dewy gleams;

While mellow warble, sprightly trill,

The tremulous heart excite;

And hums the balmy air to still

The balance of delight.

 

Time was, blest Power! when youth and maids

At peep of dawn would rise,

And wander forth, in forest glades

Thy birth to solemnize.

Though mute the song – to grace the rite

Untouched the hawthorn bough,

Thy spirit triumphs o’er the slight;

Man changes, but not thou!

 

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings

In love’s disport employ;

Warmed by thy influence, creeping things

Awake to silent joy:

Queen art thou still for each gay plant

Where the slim wild deer roves;

And served in depths where fishes haunt

Their own mysterious groves.

 

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,

Instinctive homage pay;

Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath

To honor thee, sweet May!

Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs

Behold a smokeless sky,

Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares

To open a bright eye.

 

And if, on this thy natal morn,

The pole, from which thy name

Hath not departed, stands forlorn

Of song and dance and game;

Still from the village-green a vow

Aspires to thee addrest,

Wherever peace is on the brow,

Or love within the breast.

 

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach

The soul to love the more;

Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

That never loved before.

Stript is the haughty one of pride,

The bashful freed from fear,

While rising, like the ocean-tide,

In flow the joyous year.

 

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse

The service to prolong!

To yon exulting thrush the Muse

Entrusts the imperfect song;

His voice shall chant, in accents clear,

Throughout the live-long day,

Till the first silver star appear,

The sovereignty of May.

 

The month of May was probably named after the nymph Maia, the mother of Hermes (=Mercury) in Greek mythology. The star Maia (marked above) in the Pleiades (M45) star cluster is named after her. (Photo Credit: NASA – Public Domain)

 

Orphic Hymn #42: “To the Seasons”

Translated by Thomas Taylor (1758-1835)

 

Daughters of Jove and Themis, seasons bright,

Justice, and blessed peace, and lawful right,

Vernal and grassy, vivid, holy powers,

Whose balmy breath exhales in lovely flowers!

All-colored seasons, rich increase your care,

Circling, forever flourishing and fair:

Invested with a veil of shining dew,

A flowery veil delightful to the view:

Attending Proserpine, when back from night,

The Fates and Graces lead her up to light;

When in a band-harmonious they advance,

And joyful round her, form the solemn dance:

With Ceres triumphing, and Jove divine;

Propitious come, and on our incense shine;

Give earth a blameless store of fruits to bear,

And make a novel mystic's life your care.