The Maiden Goddess

The Maiden dances, pale and fair,
On April mornings soft with rain
With apple blossoms in her hair
And green leaves trailing from her train.

In pastures thick with silver dew
She stops to bless each calf and cow
Her duty here is to renew,
A waxing crescent on her brow.

She sows the seeds of things to come
As fresh and innocent as air
But in the distance, Summer's drum
Will beckon her from here to there.