The Crone doth lash the Maiden
Yet Maiden rise to meet
With pure and nubile passion
To writhe and come beneath
And watching from the evergreen
The ever-keen Green man
Who reaches for his instrument
To play his pipe of Pan
And lull the Maiden resting
Spent upon the Moss
Her rousing eyes on blossoming
Watch green the man at dance
And rising to the yearning
A flower tender bud
With Pan she lay made fertile
The spell of Spring is cast.
