Sherry Chandler

May Day

“Tis Beltane, that cross quarter celebration of spring, and I am reading a Stephen Booth novel about the Border Morris. Called Blind to the Bones, it was published in 2003 and I recommend it if you like that kind of thing at all.

And in what you might call a perfect storm, it is also Derby Day here in Kentucky. Although my julep syrup is chilling in the refrigerator, I plucked my mint in the rain. Rain may be an issue for the Derby, though as far as I know, it’s never been canceled.

So, here is a poem by Thomas More (1779–1852) with nary a horse, sprig of mint, or Morris dancer in it, nor is the moon new today. But I think the poem is in the right mood:

The Young May Moon

THE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love;
         How sweet to rove
        Through Morna’s grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,
‘Tis never too late for delight, my dear;
        And the best of all ways
        To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
        And I, whose star
        More glorious far
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,
        Or in watching the flight
        Of bodies of light
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

— Thomas Moore, from Quiller-Couch, Arthur Thomas, Sir. The Oxford Book of English Verse. Oxford: Clarendon, 1919, [c1901]; Bartleby.com, 1999.

Thomas Moore is not Thomas More. Like Cinna the Poet in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, he might be thought unfortunate in his name.