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I sing of
brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April,
May, of June, and July-flowers.
I sing of May-poles,
hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides,
and of their bridal-cakes.
I write of youth, of love,
and have access
By these to sing of cleanly
wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by
piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I
sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses
first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves,
of twilights, and I sing
The Court of Mab, and of the
Fairy King.
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.
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