King Of May
A poem of nature worship now and in the ancient past, composed on the field of a Wiccan ritual of Spring.
Oh birch tree! Straight and tall ye stand
between the Earth and Sky,
so many times my little height,
yet on the Earth ye’ll lie.
Oh tall one, we shall take thee down,
and lop thy branches clean,
for May Eve comes to human folk
and thou shalt wed our Queen!
For thou shalt be the one, my Lord,
whose power swells in Spring,
the soul in beast and branch and corn,
and every inch the King.
Fear not while shivering to the axe,
wail not while bending o’er;
the majesty thou hast as birch
shall be thrice ten times more.
Soon thronging men shall bear thee up
unto the village square,
into a ring of swaying maids
who’ll hymn thy presence there.
Thy wife’s rich womb shall take thy tip
and joy shall sing through all,
while green wood buds and meadow blooms
and larks take up the call.
Lend us thy towering beam, my Lord,
forgive the death we bring;
we’ll join thy soul to those Great Souls
whose pleasure makes all things.
With ribbons round we’ll twine thy shaft,
bright flowers we shall don.
Around thee, King of May, we’ll dance
and sport the Sabbat long.
+ End of “King Of May” +