Nature and Elements

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden.

Sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud; And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.

Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days.

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns, Shall with their goat feet dance the antic hay.

And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies. 2

By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. 2

By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. 2

Sweetheart, come see if the rose Which at morning began to unclose Its damask gown to the sun Has not lost, now the day is done, The folds of its damasked gown And its colors so like your own.

Up roos the sonne, and up roose Emelye.

May, with alle thy floures and thy grene, Welcome be thou, faire, fresshe May.

May, with alle thy floures and thy grene, Welcome be thou, faire, fresshe May.

The bisy larke, messager of day.

For May wol have no slogardie anyght. The sesoun priketh every gentil herte, And maketh hym out of his slep to sterte.

His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.

She wolde wepe, if that she saugh a mous Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.

He was as fressh as is the month of May.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.

And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open yë, (So priketh hem nature in hit corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.

Whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!

Whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!

That, of al the floures in the mede, Thanne love I most thise floures white and rede, Swiche as men callen daysyes in our toun.