Classic Poem

Who hath not heard, when life was young,
At nurse's or at grandam's knee,
Enthralling stories said or sung
Of magic realms of faërie?
Of elves that sport beneath the moon,
Around the hazel or the thorn,
While crickets chirp a dancing tune
Till all the east is red with dawn;
Of how they freak, with tricksy plays,
Or slide adown the moony rays;
Now at their round stone table sit—
A dainty leaf their table-cloth—
While firefly waiters round them flit,
They sup their steaming sweet-pea broth.

The meal is heaped upon the board;
'T is part the brown bees' cherished hoard;
A salad of the watercress,
Which with wild mustard seed they dress;
With sour- and pepper-grasses, too,
And oil distilled from meadow rue.
They 've butter in a butter-cup,
Sippets of pollen dipped in dew;
Wine in blue-bottles bottled up
And cakes of violets dried with care;
Bread of the flour of mignonette,
Wild strawberries in cordial wet
Of cherry juice, well spiced and rare:
Would I might taste the fairies' fare!

At peep of dawn they 'd steal away,
And lurk amid the flowers all day:
But now, alas! throughout the night,
Beside the old witch-hazel tree,
We 'd vainly watch till morning light
Nor hint of fairy frolic see.

And are they exiled from the earth?
In some remoteness of a star
Where no intrusive mortals are
They hold fantastic revelry;
With pranks and airy jollity,
With laughter shrill and antic mirth,
They trip around the favored tree:
There summer lasts the whole year long,
And life is like a cheery song.

And do they ne'er revisit earth,
To view the haunts that gave them birth?
Ah, yes! but not in elfin guise,
But in some garb of insect dressed,
In shape as suits the fancy best,
Of motley moths, or shining flies;
Or some wild creature of the wood
May better please the wayward mood.

Yon bird, scarce bigger than a bee,
That darts about the tulip tree,
A radiant, many-colored thing,
Now poising on its humming wing,
May be a princess in disguise;
Or yonder troop of butterflies
That share with bird and bee, and sup
A draught from every flower cup;
And chase each other wantonly,
With many a freakish pleasantry:
That flutter o'er the clover heads,
And suck the sweets of lily-beds;—
May be an errant, elfin band,
Bright mummers out of fairy-land,
To visit each accustomed place
In beechen dell, or bosky glade,
And idle there a little space,
To hold their frolic masquerade;
Then flitting through the pearly sky
Up to their new-found home they fly,
And bid the prosy earth good-bye.