Unmasked

Was it a dream,     Or a whim of the night?     Or did they gleam     Upon my sight     An instant there in the wan moonlight?     I saw them all, I think,     Under the bowers,     The faery folk, in a moonbeam wink,     Disguised as flowers.     First came the Bleeding-Hearts, that hang like bells     Or delicate shells;     Who, gowned in white and red,     Hooped skirts and furbelows,     A long procession led     Of Faery Ladies and their beaux,     Such as the Violet and Early Rose,     Into the ball-room of the flower-bed,     Where they began a Pixy minuet.     Then suddenly, from whence nobody knows,     The Johnny-Jump-Ups glimmered in that set,     Tipping about on tiny flower-toes,     All dressed in twinkling velvet, black and blue,     Faint-jeweled with the dew:     Stout sons of Farie, Yeomen of the Night,     Glittering, each one, a rapier-ray of light:     Then, bowing two by two,     While all the Bleeding-Hearts stood by and fanned,     They, silken hand in hand,     Began a faery saraband,     That wound and interwound, and went and came again.     And then,     In ruffed and ribboned lines,     The gold-and-ruby gleaming Columbines,     Fair Maids-of-Honor to the Faery Queen,     Who still remained unseen,     Trailed twinkling into view.     And then a trumpet blew     A beetle-blast and there!     Adown a glowworm-lanthorned avenue,     Tall two by two,     With sapphire-helmd hair,     Proud Knights and minions of the moon,     The Larkspurs, to a cricket tune,     Marched with a haughty air.     And golden-cuirassed, blowing a wild fanfare     Of fragrant notes     From honey-crystaled throats,     Snapdragons, Trumpeters of the Faery King,     With pomp and glittering     Of many an elfin prince and peer,     Drew near.     And when I felt secure,     And sure     The King and Queen of Faerie would appear,     My dear,     A cockerel crew, a thwarting cockerel crew,     And, presto! whew!     The whole scene went in air,     Leaving it there,     The garden, glimmering with the moon and dew,     Looking demure     With all its flowers. But I knew,     Nay, I was sure,     It was not quite as innocent as it seemed.     It could not fool me with its looks demure.     I knew I had not dreamed.