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
Announcing me in other dells
Unto the different dawn!