They are purblind who say that Puck is dead! For childhood happiness age cannot kill, And Puck's eternal boy. Hark! Is he still? Mischief's aflood, and Lob's the fountainhead. He laughs the garden, teasing the twilight, till It sinks in dreams upon the daisy bed; Then flies, on wisps of moonbeam fancies fed, To tap like thieves upon the widow sill And scamper off, aglow to greet the dawn. All his quick glances twinkle on, is pawn Set for his play. As roguish gusts asweep Through autumn woodland, so his projects pass: Life yields him flowers on the barren steep, Or fair Titania wedded to an ass. |