For thee, sweet month; the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year; For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the… — John Dryden Copy Share Image
Better than mortal flowers, Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep, The star-crowned solitude ofthine oblivious hours! — Anonymous Copy Share Image
