May Day, 1894

Clad is the year in all her best,
    The land is sweet and sheen;
Now Spring with Summer at her breast,
    Goes down the meadows green.

Here are we met to welcome in
    The young abounding year,
To praise what she would have us win
    Ere winter draweth near.

For surely all is not in vain,
    This gallant show she brings;
But seal of hope and sign of gain,
    Beareth this Spring of springs.

No longer now the seasons wear
    Dull, without any tale
Of how the chain the toilers bear
    Is growing thin and frail.

But hope of plenty and goodwill
    Flies forth from land to land,
Nor any now the voice can still
    That crieth on the hand.

A little while shall Spring come back
    And find the Ancient Home
Yet marred by foolish waste and lack,
    And most enthralled by some.

A little while, and then at last
    Shall the greetings of the year
Be blent with wonder of the past
    And all the griefs that were.

A little while, and they that meet
    The living year to praise,
Shall be to them as music sweet
    That grief of bye-gone days.

So be we merry to our best,
    Now the land is sweet and sheen,
And Spring with Summer at her breast
    Goes down the meadows green.

William Morris

William Morris was a British textile designer, poet, novelist, translator, and socialist activist. Associated with the British Arts and Crafts Movement, he was a major influence on the development of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Morris is recognized for his contributions to the revival of traditional British textile arts and methods of production. He was also a founding member of the Socialist League and played a significant role in the early Socialist movement in England. His works reflect his political views and his passion for medievalism and craftsmanship.

William Morris

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William Morris, Simple Poetry

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No Master

William Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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May Day [1892]

THE WORKERS.

O Earth, once again cometh Spring to deliver
    Thy winter-worn heart, O thou friend of the Sun;
Fair blossom the meadows from river to river
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Isle Of Wight - Spring, 1891.

I know not what the cause may be,
    Or whether there be one or many;
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Horace Smith

O Come To The Meadows.

O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
    Primrose and violet blow,
And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,
    White as the driven snow.
I'll show you where the daisies dot
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The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,
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The stately flag that gaily rears
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The lily in whose cup the tears
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The first in Nature's dainty wreath,
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The crowfoot and the purple heath,
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The Last Of March. Written At Lolham Brigs.

Though o'er the darksome northern hill
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And faintly drifts his threatenings still
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Though floods of winter bustling fall
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Though snow-storms clothe the mossy wall,
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Though still so early, one may spy
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To Spring

Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born train
That o'er the varying year alternate reign;
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Fond Nature woos with ever-fresh desire,
Enchanting Spring! O let thy votary's lay
Invite thy angel smile, thy genial sway!

Still do thy beauties, to my partial heart,
Whene'er I gaze, superior joys impart:
When winter's cloudy veil thou draw'st away                            }
And, vested with the sun's mild, dewy ray,                            }
First to the longing earth thy charms thou dost display; }
Or when Aurora, to the lark's gay song,
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Corinna's Going A-Maying

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming Morn
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Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since; yet you not drest,
Nay! not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,
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Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen
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For jewels for your gown, or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abunda...

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