āLove, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fair,Playing in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the wind,All unseen can passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.ā
āLove, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fair,Playing in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the wind,All unseen can passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.ā