Ii

When the cobweb is a cradle For the dreaming dew to sleep in; And each blossom is a ladle That the perfumed rain lies deep in: When the flaming fireflies scribble Darkness as with lines flame-tragic, And the night seems some dim sibyl Speaking gold, or wording magic Silent-syllabled and golden: Capped with snapdragon and hooded With the sweet-pea, vague-beholden, You may see the Little People Underneath the sleepy steeple Of a towering mullein stock, Trip it over moss and rock To the owlet's elvish tune, And the tree-toad's gnome-bassoon; Till the cock, the barnyard cock, Crows them they must vanish soon.