Let no man boast himself that he has got through the perils of winter till at least the seventh of May.
Anthony Trollope

What, then, was war? No mere discord of flags But an infection of the common sky That sagged ominously upon the earth Even when the season was the airiest May?
Graves, Robert von Ranke

But it’s a long, long while From May to December; And the days grow short When you reach September.
Anderson, Maxwell

Ask me no more whither dost haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Pass me the can, lad; there’s an end of May.

It’s a funny kind of month,October. For the really keen cricket fan it’s when you realise that your wife left you in May.
Denis Norden

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

May will be fine next year as like as not: Oh, ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.

Fast fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
John Keats

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