what's going on in the hills, this may morning?
look at it all, the gold on the broom and the laburnum,
the shoulders of the thorntree bright with its surplice,
the ready emerald of grass, the quiet calves;
the chestnut trees have their candlesticks alight,
hedgerows are kneeling, the birch is still as a nun,
the cuckoo's two notes over the hush of bright streams
and a ghost mist bending away from the mead's censer;
from the council houses men come--oh come out before
the rabbits all scatter! with the weasel come and see
a wafer immaculate lifted from the earth
and the father kiss the son in the white dew.
--saunders lewis
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