|
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 years distaff idle hung And summers brows were bound. Neer saw I such a wondrous scene -- Neer 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! | 
