Stir.

Feel wind stir the greenwood, 

Or turn pages of a book made from his flesh -- 

Lean close, then, and hear, 

Green Man's voice.

Lauren Raine

One.

The Library of Congress' Folklife Today explores the origins of The Green Man ...

This figure is neither a figment of the imagination nor a symbol, but is taken from real life, and the question is whether there was any figure in real life from which it can have been taken. The answer, I think, is that there is only one of sufficient importance, the figure variously the Green Man, Jack-in-the-Green, Robin of May, and the Garland ...

It's sandwich time. 

Becomes.

GREEN MAN

Like antlers, like veins in the brain, the birches

Mark patterns of mind on the red winter sky;

‘I am thought of all plants’, says the Green Man,

‘I am thought of all plants’, says he.

The hungry birds harry the last berries of rowan

But white is her bark in the darkness of rain;

‘I rise with the sap’, says the Green Man,

‘I rise with the sap’, says he.

The ashes are clashing their boughs like sword-dancers

Their black buds are tracing wild faces in the clouds;

‘I come with the wind’, says the Green Man.

‘I come with the wind’, says he.

The alders are rattling as though ready for battle

Guarding the grove where she waits for her lover;

‘I burn with desire’, says the Green Man,

‘I burn with desire’, says he.

In and out of the yellowing wands of the willow

The pollen-bright bees are plundering the catkins;

‘I am honey of love’, says the Green Man,

‘I am honey of love’, says he.

The hedges of quick are thick with may-blossom

As the dancers advance on their leaf-covered king;

‘It’s off with my head’, says the Green Man,

‘It’s off with my head’, says he.

Green Man becomes grown man in flames of the oak

As its crown forms his mask and its leafage his features;

‘I speak through the oak’, says the Green Man,

‘I speak through the oak’, says he.

The holly is flowering as hay fields are rolling

Their gleaming long grasses like waves of the sea;

‘I shine with the sun’, says the Green Man,

‘I shine with the sun’, says he.

The hazels are rocking the cups with their nuts

As the harvesters shout when the last leaf is cut;

‘I swim with the salmon’, says the Green Man,

‘I swim with the salmon’, says he.

The globes of the grapes are robing with bloom

Like the hazes of autumn, like the Milky Way’s stardust;

‘I am crushed for your drink’, says the Green Man,

‘I am crushed for your drink’, says he.

The aspen drops silver on leaves of earth’s salver

And the poplars shed gold on the young ivy flower heads;

‘I have paid for your pleasure’, says the Green Man,

‘I have paid for your pleasure’, says he.

The reed beds are flanking in silence the islands

Where meditates Wisdom as she waits and waits;

‘I have kept her secret’, says the Green Man,

‘I have kept her secret’, says he.

The bark of the elder makes whistles for children

To call to the deer as they rove over the snow;

‘I am born in the dark’, says the Green Man,

‘I am born in the dark’, says he.

William Anderson

Play.

PAN WITH US

Pan came out of the woods one day,—

His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,

The gray of the moss of walls were they,—

  And stood in the sun and looked his fill

  At wooded valley and wooded hill.         

 

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,

On a height of naked pasture land;

In all the country he did command

  He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.

  That was well! and he stamped a hoof.         

 

His heart knew peace, for none came here

To this lean feeding save once a year

Someone to salt the half-wild steer,

  Or homespun children with clicking pails

  Who see no little they tell no tales.         

 

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach

A new-world song, far out of reach,

For a sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech

  And the whimper of hawks beside the sun

  Were music enough for him, for one.         

 

Times were changed from what they were:

Such pipes kept less of power to stir

The fruited bough of the juniper

  And the fragile bluets clustered there

  Than the merest aimless breath of air.         

 

They were pipes of pagan mirth,

And the world had found new terms of worth.

He laid him down on the sun-burned earth

  And ravelled a flower and looked away—

  Play? Play?—What should he play?         

 

Robert Frost

Sustains.

I am the Holly King, Lord of the Waning Year. 

You may know me as the Green Man or as the Winter King. 

I rule from Midsummer to Midwinter, and my reign culminates in the festivities of Yuletide. 

As the wren dies to make way for the robin, soon I will bow before my brother the Oak King. 

You will not see me again until the Sun once more begins to wane. 

As I prepare to withdraw into the deep midwinter, 

I contemplate the glowing light of the reborn Sun in my cup — and in this holy grail, 

I see visions and dreams of the year to come.

Carry a sprig of holly with you as my token. 

It will protect you against fierce winter storms, and will bestow upon you the focus, direction and courage you need to succeed in your own spiritual quest.

Fill your homes with holly this season! 

Deck the halls! 

My evergreen leaves and bright red berries, seen against the barren oaks of winter, will remind you of the Life that sustains us during the bitterest time of the year.

Play.

PAN with US

Pan came out of the woods one day,--

His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,

The gray of the moss of walls were they,--

And stood in the sun and looked his fill

At wooded valley and wooded hill.

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,

On a height of naked pasture land;

In all the country he did command

He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.

That was well! and he stamped a hoof.

His heart knew peace, for none came here

To this lean feeding save once a year

Someone to salt the half-wild steer,

Or homespun children with clicking pails

Who see so little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach

A new-world song, far out of reach,

For sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech

And the whimper of hawks beside the sun

Were music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:

Such pipes kept less of power to stir

The fruited bough of the juniper

And the fragile bluets clustered there

Than the merest aimless breath of air.

They were pipes of pagan mirth,

And the world had found new terms of worth.

He laid him down on the sun-burned earth

And raveled a flower and looked away--

Play? Play?--What should he play?

Robert Frost

Need.

1.

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

This modern world is grey and old,

And what remains to us of thee?

No more the shepherd lads in glee

Throw apples at thy wattled fold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Nor through the laurels can one see

Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,

And what remains to us of thee?

And dull and dead our Thames would be,

For here the winds are chill and cold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Then keep the tomb of Helice,

Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,

And what remains to us of thee?

Though many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Ah, what remains to us of thee?

2.

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,

Thy satyrs and their wanton play,

This modern world hath need of thee.

No nymph of Faun indeed have we,

For Faun and nymph are old and grey,

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This is the land where liberty

Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,

This modern world hath need of thee!

A land of ancient chivalry

Where gentle Sidney saw the day,

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady.

This fierce sea-lion of the sea,

This England lacks some stronger lay,

This modern world hath need of thee!

Then blow some trumpet loud and free,

And give thine oaten pipe away,

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This modern world hath need of thee!

Oscar Wilde

Greensward.

By all means enter and take sanctuary in the Greensward. But to those who seek comfort in nature’s embrace, remember: “winter’s e’comin’ in” -- for lest we forget, all greenness comes to withering.

CONNECT