Hail, bright blossoming hawthorn-tree, This fair leaFilling thus with leaves a-throng!Foot and crownal, stem and bough, Clad art thouWith a wild vine's tendrils long.
Lo! two camps of emmets red Have their steadTaken up thy roots below:In the fissures of thy stem, Over them,Bees are bedded evenso.
The new songster nightingale, Of Love's ailHim to solace and allay,Suing to his mistress dear, Year by year.In thy branches makes his stay.
In thy top he builds his nest. All to-pressed.Made with down and mosses fine.Where his younglings pleasant prey Shall one dayBe unto these hands of mine.
Live, then, pleasant plant of May, Live for aye!Axe nor levin, hail nor snow.Wind nor rigour of the rime. Nay, nor Time,With its ravin, lay thee low!
