A Page Of Herrick

From the dust of Herrick’s pages
Maytime dances down the ages,
Youth and maiden tell the old
Tale, that never quite is told;
Nodes the primrose by the rill,
Tulip gay, and daffodil,
And from dusk-dewed, scented vale
Flutes the old-world nightingale.

Let the volume open lie-
Day the sweeter made thereby;
With its Maytime in the boughs,
In the lily-leaves adrowse,
In the field-lark’s liquid note,
All earth’s joyance in his throat-
Sing, O Herrick! Maytime lies
In the song’s eternities!

by Ina D. Coolbrith

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