My chosen bride shall bless the plough
And be the Queen of harvest hours;
A bindweed wreath shall crown her brow,
All budding round with whitest flowers:
And she by sheaves of leaning corn
Shall sit upon a mound, and say,
" Better one fruit of harvest morn
Than all the blossoms of the May."

About her as she sits and sings,
Her lieges we will lounge and lie;
Passing the beaker round in rings,
And pledging her bright ripening eye.
What, tho' a thousand hopes forlorn
Have fail'd us in our onward way? —
" Better one fruit of harvest morn
Than all the blossoms of the May."