Lines for the First of May

By

The choirboys sang at dawn in Oxfordtown,
birdnotes chiming from tower’d nest
of stone above the mink-brown Cher.
I have never heard them do it
but by the heart’s hard listening,
that fancy-flight of longing
that makes an actuality of the imagined,
till the real is more dream
than the dream. And while I dreamed
an inexorable sea away, they sang,
white robes ruffled like fledgling feathers
breathed upon by auroral breezes,
round mouths wide to drink in all
that dew of blushing morn and maiden
May. The earth is glad once more—
their sweet song rouses it with a shout!
And I awake, dispossessed of all that happy dream.

My morning broods, welling tears of unshed rain,
while the green world waits,
shuddering at one long, low sob of thunder.
Yet the wild roses breathe out
a holy incense, flouncing their frills
over western hedges and showering a veil
of bridal white from the low-sweeping pines.
In the breathless orthodoxy
of this newborn day that first,
wild, young madness of honeysuckle plies
an arrow through my awakened heart.
And at evening, we sit beneath
a windswept sky, remembering
how the sun kindled her honeyed face
and how the rain silvered the hoary fretwork of her spires.
“To England,” he says, lifting a glass of stars,
summer wine enflamed by one glance of that great light.

Profile photo of Lanier Ivester

Lanier Ivester is a “Southern Lady” in the best and most classical sense and a gifted writer in the most articulate and literal sense. She hand-binds books and lives on a farm with peacocks, bees, sheep, and the governor of Ohio’s leg. She loves old books and sells them from her website, LaniersBooks.com, and she’s currently putting the final touches on her first novel, as well as studying literature at Oxford.


7 Comments

  1. April Pickle

    “that fancy-flight of longing
    that makes an actuality of the imagined,
    till the real is more dream
    than the dream.”
    Love this, Lanier. Thank you!

  2. BONNIE BUCKINGHAM

    Lanier,

    It is my birthday this May Day so I am blessed to read your poem.
    I will copy it in my journal.
    So blessed by your words.
    Bonnie

  3. Bailey

    I see. Great job! My favorite lines: “the sun kindled her honeyed face”… “sob of thunder”… “lifting a glass of stars, summer wine enflamed.”

  4. Annie Wald

    This makes me desperately miss the experience of spring, which shows how perfectly your poem captures the essence of that time and place.

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