On The Wye In May

Now is the perfect moment of the year. Half naked branches, half a mist of green, Vivid and delicate the slopes appear; The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen, And in the temperate sun we feel no fear; Of all the hours which shall be and have been, It is the briefest as it is most dear, It is the dearest as the shortest seen. O it was best, belovèd, at the first.-- Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight Was steady; on our senses scarce had burst The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight. . . I seek that clime, unknown, without a name, Where first and best and last shall be the same.