Classic Poem

Oh ! where do fairies hide their heads,
—When snow lies on the hills,
When frost has spoiled their mossy beds
—And crystallized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
—In circles o'er the plain;
And draughts of dew they cannot sip
—Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells
—They plunge beneath the waves,
Inhabiting the wreathèd shells
—That lie in coral caves.
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius
—Carousals they maintain;
And cheer their little spirits thus,
—Till green leaves come again.

When they return, there will be mirth
—And music in the air.
And fairy wings upon the earth,
—And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
—Will bar the doors in vain;
No key-hole will be fairy-proof,
—When green leaves come again.