Glamour

With fall on fall, from wood to wood,     The brook pours mossy music down     Or is it, in the solitude,     The murmur of a Faery town?     A town of Elfland filled with bells     And holiday of hurrying feet:     Or traffic now, whose small sound swells,     Now sinks from busy street to street.     Whose Folk I often recognize     In wingd things that hover 'round,     Who to men's eyes assume disguise     When on some elfin errand bound.     The bee, that haunts the touchmenot,     Big-bodied, making braggart din     Is fairy brother to that sot,     Jack Falstaff of the Boar's Head Inn.     The dragonfly, whose wings of black     Are mantle for his garb of green,     Is Ancient to this other Jack,     Another Pistol, long and lean.     The butterfly, in royal tints,     Is Hal, mad Hal, in cloth of gold,     Who passes these, as once that Prince     Passed his companions boon of old.