The Ghostly Mayers

Oh, who will take the road with me at breaking of the day!
The road with me, the road with me this morning of the May!
This morning of the May indeed when scarlet burns the pane,
And cherry bloom drops in the wind a mile along the lane.

Scarce do I call but they are come as hurrying as the wind;
Scarce do I call but fleet of foot they come full soft behind;
Oho, the ancient Maying folk, the Mayers high and low,
That all betwixt the rocking white, the dropping white do go!

A shadowy folk with reed at lip they take the swaying grass;
And they do have the scarlet pane for candle as they pass;
Now piping loud, now piping low, all cloudy in the light,
They take the swaying grass betwixt the rocking, dropping white.

One smacks of Essex, one of Kent; one smacks of Warwick's town,
And when he blows what can they do but hush them up and down;
And one has naught to tell him by save a long daffodil,
He plucked a many a year agone upon a Devon hill.

The village folk they do not know, at breaking of the day,
As down their simple lanes I go, this morning of the May,
What Presences fare on behind betwixt the trees so tall,
The rocking white, the dropping white, a mile along the wall.