There is a morn by men unseen— Whose maids upon remoter green Keep their Seraphic May— And all day long, with dance and game, And gambol I may never name— Employ their holiday.
Here to light measure, move the feet Which walk no more the village street— Nor by the wood are found— Here are the birds that sought the sun When last year’s distaff idle hung And summer’s brows were bound.
Ne’er saw I such a wondrous scene— Ne’er such a ring on such a green— Nor so serene array— As if the stars some summer night Should swing their cups of Chrysolite— And revel till the day—
Like thee to dance—like thee to sing— People upon the mystic green— I ask, each new May Morn. I wait thy far, fantastic bells— Unto the different dawn!
