The wood so softly singing
In a language strange to hear
And the song it sings will find you
As the twilight draws you near



So it is Mayday, an appropriate time to begin this project: the month when the faerie hosts ride through the woods and all the dryads, naiads and nymphs, all the elves of standing lakes and groves, the denizens of the ferny hollows where the trysting place is, emerge into the greening shade of the greening forest. 

Then the Horned One walks a path that takes him across the fording place of the stream and stops a while to play a little on his pipe as he tastes a scent on the air.  

And then there is only one path through the greenwood that he would follow as he plays a tune for his Lady who comes in splendour through the trees as the gates of the Otherworld open.