  With fall on fall, from wood to wood, The brook pours mossy music down— Or is it, in the solitude, The murmur of a Faery town? A town of Elfland filled with bells And holiday of hurrying feet: Or traffic now, whose small sound swells, Now sinks from busy street to street. Whose Folk I often recognize In wingÉd things that hover round, Who to men's eyes assume disguise When on some Faery errand bound.— The bee, that haunts the touch-me-not, Big-bodied, making braggart din, Is elfin brother to that sot, Jack Falstaff of the Boar's Head Inn. The dragon-fly, whose wings of black Are mantle for his garb of green, Is Ancient to this other Jack, Another Pistol, long and lean. The butterfly, in royal tints, Is Hal, mad Hal in cloth of gold, Who passes these, as once that Prince Passed his companions boon of old. |
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