They tinkle laughter at the solemn hills,
These dryad whisperers;
Mayhap, interpreters
Of miracles with which young April thrills;
Who babble gayly as the new waked rills,
And are the harbingers
Of zephyr roisterers
That revel, drunk on wine blithe May distills.
As dainty ballet girls
In pale-green skirted twirls;
White slender limbs agleam; they dance all day
With sunbeams in a blue-arched house of play.
The merry vagabonds
Deck them with diamonds.

Ashimmer from the valleys to the snow,
Like children, mischievous,
They climb the hazardous
Steep ways and chatter, chatter, as they go.
What is the lovely secret that they know —
Wood nymphs so venturous
And frail, and tremulous
With quivering delight from top to toe:
The bright leaves, fluttering,
Are argent bells that swing
Some mystic high rejoicing to command:
Such chimes were surely cast in fairyland.
June's ecstacy are these
That men call aspen trees!