May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves
Thy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves;
Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power,
Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower;
That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice,
In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo's shrill voice;
That fillest the heart of the lover with glee,
And bringest my Morfydd's dear image to me.
Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight,
With his chill mottled show'rs, and his flickering light,
His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast,
His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast:
With the voice of each river more fearfully loud--
Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud!
Alas! that stern Winter has power to divide
Each lover from hope--from the poet his bride.