On the Late Absence of May

IN THE YEAR 1771

The rooks in the neighbouring grove
For shelter cry all the long day;
Their huts in the branches above
Are cover'd no longer by May:
The birds that so cheerfully sung,
Are silent, or plaintive each tone,
And, as they chirp low to their young,
The want of their goddess bemoan.

No daisies on carpets of green,
O'er Nature's cold bosom are spread;
Not a sweet-briar sprig can be seen,
To finish this wreath for my head:
Some flow'rets indeed may be found,
But these neither blooming nor gay;
The fairest still sleep in the ground,
And wait for the coming of May.

December, perhaps, has purloin'd
Her rich, though fantastical geer;
With envy the months may have join'd,
And jostled her out of the year:
Some shepherds, 'tis true, may repine,
To see their lov'd gardens undrest,
But I — whilst my Phillida's mine,
Shall always have May in my breast.