Priscilla Herdman
Dancing at Whitsun
It's fifty long springtimes since she was a bride,But still you may see her at each WhitsuntideIn a dress of white linen with ribbons of green,As green as her memories of loving.The feet that were nimble tread carefully now,As gentle a measure as age will allow,Through groves of white blossoms, by fields of young corn, Where once she was pledged to her true love.The fields they stand empty, the hedges grow free--No young men to turn them, our pastures go seedThey are gone where the forests of oak trees beforeHave gone, to be wasted in battle.Down from the green farmlands and from their loved onesMarched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons.There's a fine roll of honor where the Maypole once stood, And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.There's a straight row of houses in these latter days All covering the downs where the sheep used to graze. There's a field of red poppies, a wreath from the Queen But the ladies remember at Whitsun, And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.
From Letras Mania