May in Umbria
(Lyrics of the Dawn) Say, O wander-lover, say, What is May in Umbria? Days that never dim nor darkle; Nights that spangle, nights that sparkle; Dawns that flame with burnished splendor; Eves that melt in raptures tender; Noons that glow with sapphire burning; Singing waters seaward yearning; Shouting weir and lilting shallow; Green on fertile field and fallow; Grain in ripples, grain in billows; Silvery poplars, silvery willows; Music-making contadini; Glossy curls and dark eyes sheeny; Nightingales in copse and clover, Each a little lyric lover; Cuckoo-gossips never quiet; Blossom-revel, blossom-riot; Every breeze abrim with fragrance From the hill and valley vagrants; Roses in the tangled coppice, Privet, pimpernel and poppies; Harebells, thyme in purple stretches; Vervain, violets and vetches; Stately corn-flags hued as fire is; Honeysuckle, orchid, iris — Web as delicate and dear as Ever Shah beheld in Shiraz; And through all, above and under, Something moving like a wonder, Something vigorous and vernal, Evanescent, yet eternal! Such, the wander-lovers say, Such is May in Umbria.
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