Come, May, with all thy flowers,

  Thy sweetly-scented thorn,

Thy cooling evening showers,

  The fragrant breath at morn:

When, May-flies haunt the willow,

  When May-buds tempt the bee,

Then o'er the shining billow

  My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging

  Thro' watery wilds her way,

And on her cheek is bringing

  The bright sun's orient ray:

Oh, come and court her hither,

  Ye breezes mild and warm—

One winter's gale would wither

  So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying

  Are blest with endless light,

With zephyrs always playing

  Thro' gardens always bright.

Then now, sweet May! be sweeter

  Than e'er, thou'st been before;

Let sighs from roses meet her

  When she comes near our shore.