The Elf's Song.

I. Where thronged poppies with globed shields Of fierce red Warrior all the harvest fields Is my bed. Here I tumble with the bee, Robber bee of low degree Gay with dust: Wit ye of a bracelet bold Broadly belting him with gold? It was I who bound it on When a-gambol on the lawn - It can never rust. II. Where the glow-worm lights his lamp There am I; Where within the grasses damp Crickets cry. Cheer'ly, cheer'ly in the burne Where the lins the torrents churn Into foam, Leap I on a whisp of broom, - Cheer'ly, cheer'ly through the gloom, - All aneath a round-cheeked moon, Treading on her silver shoon Lightly o'er the gloam, III. Or the cowslip on the bent Lift her head, Or the glow-worm's lamp be spent, Whitely dead: 'Neath lank ferns I laughing lie, 'Neath the ferns full warily Hid away, Where the drowsy musk-rose blows And a fussy runnel flows, Sleeping with the Fa'ry Under leafy canopy All the holyday.