Wilt THOU bring it, O new May Queen? If thou canst, come and rule us, and take
The laurel, the palm, and the pæan; all bondage but thine we would break,
And welcome the branch and the dove. But we look, and we hold our breath,
That is not the visage of Love, and beneath the piled blossoms lurks—Death!
A Society all of Love and of Brotherhood! Beautiful dream!
But alas for this Promise of May! Do not Labour's Floralia seem
As flower-feasts fair to her followers? Look on the wreaths at her feet,
Flung by enthusiast hands from the mine, and the mill, and the street,
Piled flower-offerings, thine, Proletariat Queen of the May!
And what means the new Bona Dea? and what would her suppliants say?