that spring
    From this old beech, her fair form lowly laid:—­
    The thought renews my awe! 
    How sweetly did her tresses fling
    Waves of wreathed gold unto the winds that strayed
    Fire, frost within me played,
    While I beheld the bloom
    Of laughing flowers—­O day of bliss!—­
    Around those tresses meet and kiss,
    And roses in her lap of Love the home! 
    Her grace, her port divinely fair,
    Describe it, Love! myself I do not dare. 
  In mute intent surprise
    I gazed, as when a hind is seen
    To dote upon its image in a rill;
    Drinking those love-lit eyes,
    Those hands, that face, those words serene,
    That song which with delight the heaven did fill,
    That smile which thralls me still,
    Which melteth stones unkind,
    Which in this woodland wilderness
    Tames every beast and stills the stress
    Of hurrying waters.  Would that I could find
    Her footprints upon field or grove! 
    I should not then be envious of Jove. 
  Thou cool stream rippling by,
    Where oft it pleased her to dip
    Her naked foot, how blest art thou! 
    Ye branching trees on high,
    That spread your gnarled roots on the lip
    Of yonder hanging rock to drink heaven’s dew! 
    She often leaned on you,
    She who is my life’s bliss! 
    Thou ancient beech with moss o’ergrown,
    How do I envy thee thy throne,
    Found worthy to receive such happiness! 
    Ye winds, how blissful must ye be,
    Since ye have borne to heaven her harmony! 
  The winds that music bore,
    And wafted it to God on high,
    That Paradise might have the joy thereof. 
    Flowers here she plucked, and wore
    Wild roses from the thorn hard by: 
    This air she lightened with her look of love: 
    This running stream above,
    She bent her face!—­Ah me! 
    Where am I?  What sweet makes me swoon? 
    What calm is in the kiss of noon? 
    Who brought me here?  Who speaks?  What melody? 
    Whence came pure peace into my soul? 
    What joy hath rapt me from my own control?

Poliziano’s refrain is always:  ’Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.  It is spring-time now and youth.  Winter and old age are coming!’ A Maggio, or May-day song, describing the games, dances, and jousting matches of the Florentine lads upon the morning of the first of May, expresses this facile philosophy of life with a quaintness that recalls Herrick.  It will be noticed that the Maggio is built, so far as rhymes go, on the same system as Poliziano’s Ballata.  It has considerable historical interest, for the opening couplet is said to be Guido Cavalcanti’s, while the whole poem is claimed by Roscoe for Lorenzo de’ Medici, and by Carducci with better reason for Poliziano.

    Welcome in the May
    And the woodland garland gay!