On the Wye in May

 Now is the perfect moment of the year.

Half naked branches, half a mist of green,
Vivid and delicate the slopes appear;
The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen,

And in the temperate sun we feel no fear;
Of all the hours which shall be and have been,
It is the briefest as it is most dear,
It is the dearest as the shortest seen.


O it was best, belovèd, at the first.
--
Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight
Was steady; on our senses scarce had burst
The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight.
 .
 .


I seek that clime, unknown, without a name,
Where first and best and last shall be the same.

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