Tangles of vine, wisps of thorn,
Roping a rocky face of granite,
High, on a hill are drops of sky,
Green hands cradle purple beads
Of the sun, whose skin is frosted
In water vail, morning days' dew
Has come, birds and bees singing
Songs to hum anew, this offering
All to ancient invitations of spring,
There will be wine and flower laid,
Before rise of moon or day is done.