The Little People

I.     When the lily nods in slumber,     And the roses all are sleeping;     When the night hangs deep and umber,     And the stars their watch are keeping;     When the clematis uncloses     Like a hand of snowy fire,     And the golden-lipped primroses,     To the tiger-moths' desire,     Each a mouth of musk unpuckers     Silken pouts of scented sweetness,     That they sip with honey-suckers;     Shod with hush and winged with fleetness,     You may see the Little People,     'Round and 'round the drowsy steeple     Of a belfried hollyhock,     Clothed in phlox and four-o'clock,     Gay of gown and pantaloon,     Dancing by the glimmering moon,     Till the cock, the long-necked cock,     Crows them they must vanish soon. 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 gleaming 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 mullen-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. III.     When the wind upon the water     Seems a boat of ray and ripple,     That some fairy moonbeam daughter     Steers with sails that drift and dripple;     When the sound of grig and cricket,     Ever singing, ever humming,     Seems a goblin in the thicket     On his elfin viol strumming;     When the toadstool, coned and milky,     Heaves a roof for snails to clamber;     Thistledown- and milkweed-silky,     With loose locks of jade and amber,     You may see the Little People,     Underneath the pixy steeple     Of a domd mushroom, flock,     Quaint in wildflower vest and frock,     Whirling by the waning moon     To the whippoorwill's weird tune,     Till the cock, the far-off cock,     Crows them they must vanish soon.