Now therefore, thou who bring'st the year to birth, Who guid'st the bare and dabbled feet of May;Sweet stem to that rose Christ, who from the earth Suck'st our poor prayers, conveying them to Him;Be aidant, tender Lady, to my lay!
Of thy two maidens somewhat must I say, Ere shadowy twilight lashes, drooping, dim Day's dreamy eyes from us;Ere eve has struck and furled The beamy-textured tent transpicuous, Of webbed coerule wrought and woven calms, Whence has paced forth the lambent-footed sun.
And Thou disclose my flower of song upcurled, Who from Thy fair irradiant palms Scatterest all love and loveliness as alms;Yea, Holy One, Who coin'st Thyself to beauty for the world!
Then, Spring's little children, your lauds do ye upraise To Sylvia, O Sylvia, her sweet, feat ways!
Your lovesome labours lay away, And trick you out in holiday, For syllabling to Sylvia;And all you birds on branches, lave your mouths with May, To bear with me this burthen, For singing to Sylvia.