Not gold nor green but glory born of both
the resurrected sun-blessed wood invades.
These buzzing bursting thrusting days of growth
are Eden in the hidden bluebell'd glades.
On aimless progress, seeking in the lanes
that peace beyond mere rest which stays outside
our reach, it seems that winter’s dismal rains
have yielded up a springtime sanctified.
Here we feel the grace of Mary’s May
long hallowed by the lives of those before
who lived in other worlds yet knew this way
and like us clung to beauty to endure.
As summer dawns we see an ancient youth
in whose unspoken sadness lingers truth.