Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.
May ends as it began, grey and rainy but without the wild winds of either May 1 or Housman's poem. I had the heat on until mid-month at least, and would have had it on longer but for sheer bloody mindedness. Would like to have my space heater on now, in fact, but will do the 'hot bath, beanbags, and bundle' thing instead. My house holds the cold well enough that highs of 20 don't affect it much. And as I'm usually into open windows and fans at this time of year, instead of flannel and bedsocks, I should be grateful.
It rained much of the month as well. The lake has surpassed its 2017 record height. So much for those condos down by the waterfront...
The lilacs are still kicking around a week after the Glorious 25th, which is nice, and I have what is for me a bumper crop of lily of the valley that I have picked to scent my kitchen. While we had a lot of 'November with flowers' in this chilly month, we didn't get my other favourite May topos, warm sunny evenings when the blossoms scent everything sweetly. Ah well: one rarely gets to complain these days about things not being warm enough.
It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.
Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.