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!