Swinburne

English poet and many-time Nobel Prize in literature nominee, youthful wildman A.C. Swinburne's [1837-1909] poem 'A Dark Month' has a great opening in stanza one [and read more here]:

I. A MONTH without sight of the sun     Rising or reigning or setting Through days without use of the day, Who calls it the month of May? The sense of the name is undone     And the sound of it fit for forgetting.We shall not feel if the sun rise,     We shall not care when it sets: If a nightingale make night’s air As noontide, why should we care? Till a light of delight that is done rise,     Extinguishing grey regrets; Till a child’s face lighten again     On the twilight of older faces; Till a child’s voice fall as the dew On furrows with heat parched through And all but hopeless of grain,     Refreshing the desolate places— Fall clear on the ears of us hearkening     And hungering for food of the sound And thirsting for joy of his voice: Till the hearts in us hear and rejoice, And the thoughts of them doubting and darkening     Rejoice with a glad thing found. When the heart of our gladness is gone,     What comfort is left with us after? When the light of our eyes is away, What glory remains upon May, What blessing of song is thereon     If we drink not the light of his laughter? No small sweet face with the daytime     To welcome, warmer than noon! No sweet small voice as a bird’s To bring us the day’s first words! Mid May for us here is not Maytime!     No summer begins with June. A whole dead month in the dark,     A dawn in the mists that o’ercome her Stifled and smothered and sad— Swift speed to it, barren and bad! And return to us, voice of the lark,     And remain with us, sunlight of summer.