First of May

Great is the sun, and wide he goes

Through empty heaven without repose

And in the blue and glowing days

More thick than rain he showers his rays.



Thoough closer still the blinds we pull


To keep the shady parlor cool,


Yet he will find a chink or two


To slip his golden fingers through.



The dusty attic, spider-clad,


He, through the keyhole, maketh glad


And though the broken edge of tiles,


Into the laddered hayloft smiles.



Meantime his golden face around


He bares to all the garden ground,


And sheds a warm and glittering look


Among the ivy's inmost nook.



Above the hills, along the blue,


Round the bright air, with footing true,


To please the child, to paint the rose,


The gardener of the World, he goes.

~Summer Sun by Robert Louis Stevenson