An elf there is who stables the hot Red wasp that stings o’ the apricot; An elf who rowels his spiteful bay, Like a mote on a ray, away, away;
An elf who saddles the hornet lean To din i’ the ear o’ the swinging bean; Who hunts with a hat cocked half awry The bottle-blue o’ the dragon-fly:—
O ho, O hi! Oh, well know I. An elf there is where the clover tips A horn whence the summer leaks and drips, Where lanthorns of mustard-flowers bloom,
In the dusk awaits the bee's dull boom; Gay gold brocade from head to knee, Who robs the caravan bumble-bee; Big bags of honey bee-merchants pay
To the bandit elf of the Fairy way,— O ho, O hey! I have heard them say. Another ouphen the butterflies know, Who paints their wings like the buds that blow;
Flowers, staining the dew-drops through, Seals their colors in tubes of dew; Colors to dazzle the butterflies’ wing — The evening moth is another thing:
The butterfly's glory he got at dawn, The moon-moth's got when the moon was wan; He it is, that the hollyhocks hear, Who dangles a brilliant i’ each one's ear;
Teases at noon the pane's green fly, And lights at night the glow-worm's eye:— O ho, O hi! Oh, well know I. But the dearest elf, so the poets say,
Is the elf who hides in an eye of gray; Who curls in a dimple and slips along The strings of a lute or a lover's song; Shines in a scent, or wings a rhyme,
And laughs in the bells of a wedding chime; Hides unhidden, where none may know, In her bosom's blossom or throat's blue bow — O ho, O ho!— a friend or foe?
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