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When the poppies with their shield,
Sentinel
Forest and the harvest fields,
In the hill
Of a blossom, fair to see
There I stall the humble bee,
My good stud;
There I stable him and hold,
Harness him with fairy gold,
There I ease his burly back
Of the honey and its sack
Gathered from each bud.
Where the glowworm lights its lamp
There I lie;
Where, above the grasses damp,
Moths go by;
Now within the fussy brook,
Where the waters wind and crook
Round the rocks,
I go sailing down the gloom
Straddling on a wisp of broom,
Or, beneath the owlet moon,
Trip it to the cricket's tune
Tossing back my locks.
Ere the crowfoot on the lawn lifts its head,
Or the glowworm's light be gone
Dim and dead,
In a cobweb hammock deep
Twixt two ferns I swing and sleep
Hid away;
Where the drowsy musk-rose blows
And a dreamy runnel flows
In the land of Faery,
Where no mortal thing can see
All the elfin day.
—Madison Cawein.
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