From a Book of Hours

So bright May begins in a blaze of trumpet gold,
of days that could never be. The lords and ladies ride
far forward into the woods, for they do hold
Love warmly and as pageantry's perfect bride.

Beneath the shoots of notes they joy their loud
Alleluias and spread their cloaks to enrich the earth.
Those pouring dresses lie like clouds
or tulips waiting for the sun's caresses to give birth

to the velvet sighs that lie sweetening on the ground.
Love fills the gold cup of the trumpet hollow
until it flames in the sun and air around
flashing up the valley with the swallow.

And each moment will stay unfallen and gold,
frail at the tips of time's thin reach.
The lovers are gone before the touch of the cold,
gone to the inner fires of their distant castles.