Mayhymn

The dawn has come, the chill has gone,
the year warms into day,
and glistening white like frost blooms bright,
the hawthorn stands in spray;
and secretly and silently
to rouse the passion play
the Green Man moves through fields and goves
and murmurs, "Comes the May!"

And wound and bound with ribbons `round,
the may branch makes a crown.
The blossoms hide the thorns inside;
he pulls it firmly down,
so from his head the haws wine-red
come dripping to the ground.
He calls his steed to come with speed
and bear him through the town.

So now he rides, nor stays nor bides;
the black horse bears him on,
and in his wake the cold heart quakes,
so wild he flies along.
Be still and hear, for he is near,
but soft yet is his song:
as sweet as morn, as sharp as thorn,
a fire on the tongue.