May is Mary’s month, and I |
Muse at that and wonder why: |
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Her feasts follow reason, |
Dated due to season— |
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Candlemas, Lady Day; | |
But the Lady Month, May, |
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Why fasten that upon her, |
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With a feasting in her honour? |
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Is it only its being brighter |
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Than the most are must delight her? | |
Is it opportunest |
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And flowers finds soonest? |
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Ask of her, the mighty mother: |
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Her reply puts this other |
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Question: What is Spring?— | |
Growth in every thing— |
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Flesh and fleece, fur and feather, |
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Grass and greenworld all together; |
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Star-eyed strawberry-breasted |
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Throstle above her nested | |
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Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin |
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Forms and warms the life within; |
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And bird and blossom swell |
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In sod or sheath or shell. |
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All things rising, all things sizing | |
Mary sees, sympathising |
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With that world of good, |
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Nature’s motherhood. |
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Their magnifying of each its kind |
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With delight calls to mind | |
How she did in her stored |
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Magnify the Lord. |
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Well but there was more than this: |
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Spring’s universal bliss |
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Much, had much to say | |
To offering Mary May. |
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When drop-of-blood-and-foam-dapple |
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Bloom lights the orchard-apple |
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And thicket and thorp are merry |
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With silver-surfèd cherry | |
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And azuring-over greybell makes |
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Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes |
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And magic cuckoocall |
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Caps, clears, and clinches all— |
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This ecstasy all through mothering earth | |
Tells Mary her mirth till Christ’s birth |
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To remember and exultation |
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In God who was her salvation. |
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