JOHN MILTON (1608-1674)

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve when all the woods are still

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,

While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.

The liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,

Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will

Have linked that amorous power to they soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;

As thou from year to year has sung too late

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 

Whether the Muse of Love call thee his mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

(Source COMUS and some shorter poems of Milton E.M.W. & P.B. Tillyard p.ll5)

TO  A  CREOLE  LADY

The isle is fragrant and the sun is kind;

shadows of palm and poinciana shed

their languor on a lady living there

unknown to men's acclaim. I know her, though:

warm and white beneath a cloud of hair,

her face is borne with noble elegance -

she walks like Artemis, as tall, as lithe,

and when she smiles, assurance lights her glance ...

If you should ever visit glory's home

along the green Loire or the Seine, Madame,

your loveliness, a match for our chateaux,

would prompt in 'scholarly retreats' a flood

of sonnets from our poet's hearts, enslaved

more humbly than your blacks by those great eyes.

Source:  ( BAUDELAIRE Poems  Everyman's Pocket Library (Jacket design by Barbara de Wilde p.99)

A lovely poem to greet the spring; relax with Baudelaire and, maybe a glass of wine!

SOUL SONG

Did you hear of the man who had

a woman tattooed on his back:

her things on his, calf to calf, tapered

down to ankles, heels: her slender arms

etched on the pales of his own, her breasts

beneath his shoulder blades, throat on nape,

her face on the back of his shaven head?

He called her his soul-mate, then his soul.

This is not anecdotal, but fable,

I should tell you, drop the blinds,

he lay with her ten thousand nights

but she aged with him, blemished,

tarnished, more vascular than luminous

until his true soul, she took umbrage,

upped and left without a note.

(Source: Saturday Guardian 11.05.13 Review)

To soothe: another Baudelaire

TO A MALABAR GIRL

Your feet are agile as your hands; your hips

make well-endowed white women envious;

your velvet eyes are blacker than your flesh,

and for the artist pondering his theme

your body is a blessing undisguised.

Livening hot landscapes where you live,

you fill the water-jugs and perfume jars,

you light your master's pipe and wave away

mosquitoes from his bed - such are your tasks,

and when the plane-trees rustle in the dawn

you buy bananas ripe from the bazaar.

The day is filled with the sound of your bare feet

and snatches of incomprehensible songs;

when evening's scarlet mantle falls, you stretch

your limbs out on the matting, and you dream -

what do you dream? There must be hummingbirds

and bright hibiscus lovely as yourself ...

(Source: ibid p.219)

A lovely image!

Primrose Time

Come May, sweet May, with all thy bloom,
Thy fragrant breezes, azure skies,
Come quickly to the waiting earth,
And bid its bidden treasures rise.
Give us again the song of birds,
The scent of blossoms on the air,
The rustle of the growing grass,
The dainty primrose, sweet and fair.

Oh! there are hearts that long to feel
Thy soft caress on cheek and brow;
Hearts grieving, that would fain be glad;
Come then, dear May, and teach them how.
Come, tell us of thy sister June,
What gifts from her shall follow thine?
Ah! roses red she wears for crown;
Bright May, thy primrose shall be mine.

All yellow o'er the grassy lane
The cowslips spread, and 'neath thy skies
The sweet "May blossoms" in their beds,
With violets, ope their soft blue eyes.
Then come, come quickly, charming May,
Strew the broad earth with gifts so sweet;
And hill and vale, and earth and sky,
Thy praises ever shall repeat.

 by: Mary Dow Brine (1816-1913)

A swarm of bees in May

Is worth a load of hay

A swarm of bees in June

Is worth a silver spoon

A swarm of bees in July

Is not worth a fly. 

Rhymes from England

Tis like the birthday of the world

When earth was born in bloom

The light is made of many dyes

the air is all perfume:

There's crimson buds, and white and blue.

The very rainbow showers

have turned to blossoms where they fell

And sown the earth with flowers             

Thomas Hood

May. Queen of blossoms and fulfilling flowers.

With what pretty music.

shall we charm the hours?

Wilt though have pipe and reed.

blown in the open mead?

Or to the lute give heed

In the green bowers         

Lord Edward Thurlow   Quotes to May.