May

 O month when they who love must love and wed!

 Were one to go to worlds where May is naught,

 And seek to tell the memories he had brought

 From earth of thee, what were most fitly said?

 I know not if the rosy showers shed

 From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought

 In fields, or if the robin's call be fraught

 The most with thy delight. Perhaps they read

 Thee best who in the ancient time did say

 Thou wert the sacred month unto the old:

 No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day

 So subtly sweet as memories which unfold

 In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie,

 To sun themselves once more before they die.

From "A Calendar of Sonnets" by Helen Hunt Jackson