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Epithamalion
The town’s a wedding in April:
Every street a row of brides in their wide white branches,
the bridesmaids in plum and pink all dancing,
the guests each a different green waving and bowing.
Around all the feet the little flower girls run smiling.
And where is the groom, and who is the groom?
Nobody cares. Or else the brides are all grooms.
This is a wedding, not a marriage,
A wedding of peach and coral and pearl, saffron and purple,
rose and rose, lilac and blue.
Bright notes fall down like diamonds as the choirs fly upward.
My lord sun comes riding early on his tall horses
blessing it all with a shower of gold.
The town’s a wedding in April:
Every street a row of brides in their wide white branches,
the bridesmaids in plum and pink all dancing,
the guests each a different green waving and bowing.
Around all the feet the little flower girls run smiling.
And where is the groom, and who is the groom?
Nobody cares. Or else the brides are all grooms.
This is a wedding, not a marriage,
A wedding of peach and coral and pearl, saffron and purple,
rose and rose, lilac and blue.
Bright notes fall down like diamonds as the choirs fly upward.
My lord sun comes riding early on his tall horses
blessing it all with a shower of gold.
