MAY

Hark!  The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim
  My coming, and the swarming of the bees. 
These are my heralds, and behold! my name
  Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees. 
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas;
  I waft o’er all the land from far away
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides,
  My birthplace.  I am Maia.  I am May.

JUNE

Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
  The Month of Marriages!  All pleasant sights
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
  The foliage of the valleys and the heights. 
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
  The mower’s scythe makes music to my ear;
I am the mother of all dear delights;
  I am the fairest daughter of the year.

JULY

My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe
  The breath of Libyan deserts o’er the land;
My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe,
  And bent before me the pale harvests stand. 
The lakes and rivers shrink at my command,
  And there is thirst and fever in the air;
The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand;
  I am the Emperor whose name I bear.

AUGUST

The Emperor Octavian, called the August,
  I being his favorite, bestowed his name
Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,
  In memory of him and of his fame. 
I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame
  Burns less intensely than the Lion’s rage;
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim
  The golden Harvests as my heritage.

SEPTEMBER

I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise
  The night and day; and when unto my lips
I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise
  Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships;
The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips;
  Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight;
The hedges are all red with haws and hips,
  The Hunter’s Moon reigns empress of the night.

OCTOBER

My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves,
  Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed;
I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves,
  O’er orchards and o’er vineyards I preside. 
Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride,
  The dreamy air is full, and overflows
With tender memories of the summer-tide,
  And mingled voices of the doves and crows.

NOVEMBER

The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I,
  Born of Ixion’s and the cloud’s embrace;
With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly,
  A steed Thessalian with a human face. 
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase
  The leaves, half dead already with affright;
I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race
  Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.