Lord Thomas he rose and donned his clothes;
    For he was a sleepless man: 
  And ever he tried to change his thoughts,
    Yet ever they one way ran. 
  He to catch the breeze through the apple trees,
    By the orchard path did stray,
  Till he was aware of a lady there
    Came walking adown that way: 
  Out gushed the song the trees among
    Then soared and sank away,
  On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

  With eyes down-cast care-slow she came,
    Heedless of shine or shade,
  Or the dewy grass that wetted her feet,
    And heavy her dress all made: 
  Oh trembled the song the trees among,
    And all at once was stayed,
  On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

  Lord Thomas he was a truth-fast knight,
    And a calm-eyed man was he. 
  He pledged his troth to his mother’s maid
    A damsel of low degree: 
  He spoke her fair, he spoke her true
    And well to him listened she. 
  He gave her a kiss, she gave him twain
    All beneath an apple tree: 
  The little birds trilled, the little birds filled
    The air with their melody,
  On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

  A goodly sight it was, I ween,
    This loving couple to see,
  For he was a tall and a stately man,
    And a queenly shape had she. 
  With arms each laced round other’s waist,
    Through the orchard paths they tread
  With gliding pace, face mixed with face,
    Yet never a word they said: 
  Oh! soared the song the birds among,
    And seemed with a rapture sped,
  On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

  The dew-wet grass all through they pass,
    The orchard they compass round;
  Save words like sighs and swimming eyes
    No utterance they found. 
  Upon his chest she leaned her breast,
    And nestled her small, small head,
  And cast a look so sad, that shook
    Him all with the meaning said: 
  Oh hushed was the song the trees among,
    As over there sailed a gled,
  On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

  Then forth with a faltering voice there came,
    “Ah would Lord Thomas for thee
  That I were come of a lineage high,
    And not of a low degree.” 
  Lord Thomas her lips with his fingers touched,
    And stilled her all with his ee’: 
  “Dear Ella!  Dear Ella!” he said,
    “Beyond all my ancestry
  Is this dower of thine—­that precious thing,
    Dear Ella, thy purity. 
  Thee will I wed—­lift up thy head—­
    All I have I give to thee—­
  Yes—­all that is mine is also thine—­
    My lands and my ancestry.” 
  The little birds sang and the orchard rang
    With a heavenly melody,
  On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

Modern Giants