May

May’s the merriest time of all,
  Life comes back to everything,
While a ray of light remains
  The never weary blackbirds sing.

That’s the cuckoo’s strident voice,
  “Welcome summer great and good!”
All the fury of the storm
  Lost in tangles of the wood.

Summer stems the languid stream,
  Thirsty horses rush the pool,
Bracken bristles everywhere,
  White bog-cotton is in bloom.

Scant of breath the burdened bees
  Carry home the flowery spoil,
To the mountains go the cows,
  The ant is glutted with his meal.

The wind awakes the woodland’s harp,
  The sail falls and the world’s at rest,
A mist of heat upon the hills
  And the water full of mist.

The corncrake drones, a bustling bard,
  The cold cascade that leaps the rock
Sings of the snugness of the pool,
  Their season come, the rushes talk.

The man grows strong, the virgin tall,
  Each in his glory, firm and light,
Bright the far and fertile plain,
  Bright the wood from floor to height.

Here among the meadowlands
  An eager flock of birds descends,
And there a stream runs white and fast
  Where the murmuring meadow bends.

And you long to race a horse
  Headlong through the parting crowd,
The sun has scarcely touched the land
  But the water-flags are gold.

Frightened, foolish, frail, a bird
  Sings of it with throbbing breast—
The lark that flings its praise abroad,
  May the brightest and the best.


Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An Anthology from the Irish;
1962; London; Macmillan & Co; pp.18-19