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!