The Assembling of The Fays

They come from beds of lichen green,

They creep from the mullein's velvet screen;

Some on the backs of beetles fly

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,

Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,

And rocked about in the evening breeze;

And now they throng the moonlight glade,

Above—below—on every side,

Their little minim forms arrayed,

In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.