Green branches, green branches, you sing of a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-young, sun-ripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, “Follow, oh, Follow, Follow !”
O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing.
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.
From The Lonely Hunter by Fiona MacLeod ( William Sharp)
Dancer © Diana Bloomfield
To learn more about the work of Diana Bloomfield please visit her page at Diana Bloomfield.
To learn more about William Sharp please visit William Sharp Archives.
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