Poetry Archives

The Green Hunters went ridin’;
They swept down the night
Through hollows of shadow
An’ pools of moonlight;
Their steeds’ shoes of soft silver,
They blew ne’er a horn,
But trampled a highway
Among the ripe corn.

I looked from the half-door,
They never saw me,
For each one kept wavin’
A slip of a tree;
’Twas black as the yewan,
An’ whiter than may.
An’ red as the sally
That goes the wind’s way.

The Green Hunter came ridin’
Back to Gore Wood;
Though they heard my lips movin’,
I stood where I stood.
Oh, what do they call him
The one rode behind?
For my heart’s in his holdin’,
My mind in his mind.