Softly, on little feet that make no sound, With laughter that one does not hear, they tread Upon the primroses that star the ground, Latticed by shade from branches overhead, Swaying in moonlight; but their footsteps make A twinkling like the raindrops on the lake. The shy things that love silence and the night Are fearless at their coming; as they pass, Neither the nightingale nor owl take flight, So gentle is each footfall on the grass; They are a part of silence, and a part Of sweetness sprung from tears hid in the heart. Their faces we may not caress, nor hear The little bodies that are soft as dreams; Their life is rounded by another sphere, They are as frail as shadows seen in streams: A ripple might efface them, but they keep Shadows of their existence in our sleep.
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