Faery Morris
I. The winds are whist; and, hid in mist, The moon hangs o'er the wooded height; The bushy bee, with unkempt head, Hath made the sunflower's disk his bed, And sleeps half-hid from sight. The owlet makes us melody - Come dance with us in Fary, Come dance with us to-night. II. The dew is damp; the glow-worm's lamp Blurs in the moss its tawny light; The great gray moth sinks, half-asleep, Where, in an elfin-laundered heap, The lily-gowns hang white. The crickets make us minstrelsy - Come dance with us in Fary, Come dance with us to-night. III. With scents of heat, dew-chilled and sweet, The new-cut hay smells by the bight; The ghost of some dead pansy bloom, The butterfly dreams in the gloom, Its pied wings folded tight. The world is lost in fantasy, - Come dance with us in Fary, Come dance with us to-night.
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