The Green Month

What of all the colours shall I bring you for your fairing, Fit to lay your fingers on, fine enough for you?— Yellow for the ripened rye, white for ladies' wearing, Red for briar-roses, or the skies' own blue?

Nay, for spring has touched the elm, spring has found the willow, Winds that call the swallow home sway the boughs apart; Green shall all my curtains be, green shall be my pillow, Green I'll wear within my hair, and green upon my heart.