Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. — William Shakespeare Copy Share Image
On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air — William Shakespeare Copy Share Image
