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 on 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 that mystic green–
I ask, each new May morn.
I wait they far–fantastic bells–
Announcing me in other dells–
Unto the different dawn!
~~Emily Dickinson, c. summer 1858