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William Wordsworth - Ode Composed On A May Morning
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WHILE from the purpling east departs
     The star that led the dawn,
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
     For May is on the lawn.
A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
     Foreran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,
     Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
     Tempers the year`s extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o`er noon-day,
     Like morning`s dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
     The tremulous heart excite;
And hums the balmy air to still
     The balance of delight.
 
Time was, blest Power! when youth and maids
     At peep of dawn would rise,
And wander forth, in forest glades
     Thy birth to solemnize.
Though mute the song—-to grace the rite
     Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Thy Spirit triumphs o`er the slight;
     Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
     In love`s disport employ;
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things
     Awake to silent joy:
Queen art thou still for each gay plant
     Where the slim wild deer roves;
And served in depths where fishes haunt
     Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,
     Instinctive homage pay;
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath
     To honor thee, sweet May!
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs
     Behold a smokeless sky,
Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares
     To open a bright eye.

And if, on this thy natal morn,
     The pole, from which thy name
Hath not departed, stands forlorn
     Of song and dance and game;
Still from the village-green a vow
     Aspires to thee addrest,
Wherever peace is on the brow,
     Or love within the breast.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach
     The soul to love the more;
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach
     That never loved before.
Stript is the haughty one of pride,
     The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
     In flow the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse
     The service to prolong!
To yon exulting thrush the Muse
     Entrusts the imperfect song;
His voice shall chant, in accents clear,
     Throughout the live-long day,
Till the first silver star appear,
     The sovereignty of May.
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