24 <br /> <br />There is a morn by men unseen— <br />Whose maids upon remoter green <br />Keep their Seraphic May— <br />And all day long, with dance and game, <br />And gambol I may never name— <br />Employ their holiday. <br /> <br />Here to light measure, move the feet <br />Which walk no more the village street— <br />Nor by the wood are found— <br />Here are the birds that sought the sun <br />When last year's distaff idle hung <br />And summer's brows were bound. <br /> <br />Ne'er saw I such a wondrous scene— <br />Ne'er such a ring on such a green— <br />Nor so serene array— <br />As if the stars some summer night <br />Should swing their cups of Chrysolite— <br />And revel till the day— <br /> <br />Like thee to dance—like thee to sing— <br />People upon the mystic green— <br />I ask, each new May Morn. <br />I wait thy far, fantastic bells— <br />Unto the different dawn!<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-is-a-morn-by-men-unseen/
