Robert Laurence Binyon

May Morning

Over all the watered vale
Shadows of the clouds trail:
Then the sun laughs out, and sheen
Runs like joy across the green.
Young the leaf is, young the flower;
Radiant the beeches tower,
A million tremblings all as one
Dancing forth into the sun.
Above the sound of hidden brooks
Birds sprinkle songs on coppice--nooks,
Each his private happy note,
With small bright eye and rippled throat.

England, through whose fields I stray
In this heavenly--coloured May,
England, lost in histories
Older than her oldest trees,
With nested hamlets, each of them
Flavoured like its ancient name;
England, where my blood began
And moulded childhood into man,
Comes to--day before my eyes
Like a new--found paradise.

Yet I wonder not at this
Wonder, that is half of bliss.
I have looked into Love's eyes
Long, and Love has made me wise.
As when first one face I knew
And our lips together drew,
Old in love, my heart to--day
Is young as the young leaves of May.