Whist in the night when the wet leaves are dripping Fairy-folk seem as though drowsy, ashirk; Dawn yet will show little people are tripping Now featest to work, Training the tendrils, perfuming the arbors, Greening the sprouts that will later be sheaves, Banding themselves into guilds like the barbers' As trimmers of leaves. Raising with rites of a fay necromancy The ominous bloom of the mushroom, they prune The love-in-the-mist and they plot, as I fancy, New pranks with the moon. These are my gossips. Each rascally fairy That firefly rides or from gossamer swings My crony is sworn, but of one I am wary -- A boy who hath wings. |