Hartley Coleridge (1796–1849)

(1832)

IS this the merry May of tale and song?

Chill breathes the north, the sky looks chilly blue,

The waters wear a cold and iron hue,

Or wrinkle as the crisp wave creeps along,

Much like an ague-fit. The starry throng

Of flow’rets droop, o’erdone with drenching dew,

Or close their leaves at noon, as if they knew

And felt, in helpless wrath, the season’s wrong.

Yet in the half-clad woods, the busy birds

Chirping with all their might to keep them warm,

The young hare flitting from her ferny form,

The vernal lowing of the amorous herds,

And swelling buds, impatient of delay,

Declare it should be, though it is not, May.