ode

While Earth herself is adorning
This sweet May morning,
And the children are culling
On every side
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm
And the Babe leaps up on its mother’s arm –

Then sing ye Birds, sing a joyous song
And let the young lambs bound as to the tabor’s sound
We in thought will join your throng
Ye that pipe and ye that play
Ye that through your hearts today
Feel the gladness of the May.

-W. Wordsworth-