May

May is a beautiful maiden,
With flounces of tender green.
A mid-riff of fragrant young flowers,
With ruffles all stitched in between.

Here she comes skipping the meadows,
All flushed with a lark's thrilling note.
Holding her hem-line of mountains,
With a snowy white-petticoat.

Flowing and fair are her tresses,
On tiny-feet slippered in gold.
Right to your heart she capers,
A symbol of beauty to behold.


E.P. 1908 - 1989