by Peter Burn
Queen of months, supremely fair,
Cloth'd with garments rich and rare,
None in beauty can compare
With thee, sweet May.
Lovely month, thou bringest mirth,
Spreadest sweetness o;er the earth,
Causest Nature to give birth
To fruits and flowers.
Thou art lov'd by young and old.
Joys for each thou dost unfold;
Never shall our hearts grow cold
To thee, sweet May.
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