The
Feast of Saint Brigid
Announces
spring.
Grass
starts growing;
Birds
start to sing.
The
day stretches out,
Grabbing
time from the night,
Enlivening
creatures
With
extra light.
Young
Brigid is Princess.
The
Hag is dead.
Prepare
her garland
In
the months ahead.
When
hedgerows burst with blossom
And
buttercups gild the way,
Then
we’ll hail our Princess
As
Queen of the May.
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