Classic Poem

My carriage is rolling slowly
Through merry forest green;
Through flowery vales enchanted,
Blooming in summer sheen.

I think of my best Beloved,
And muse and dream as I ride;
When three shadowy shapes salute me,
Thrusting their heads inside.

They caper with strange grimaces,
They mock yet seem half in dread;
Like mists they whirl into each other,
And titter—and whoop! they are sped.