  THE garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers, The sunflowers and hollyhocks stood up like towers; There were dark turncap lilies and jessamine rare, And sweet thyme and marjoram scented the air. The moon made the sun-dial tell the time wrong; ’Twas too late in the year for the nightingale’s song; The box-trees were clipped, and the alleys were straight, Till you came to the shrubbery hard by the gate. The fairies stepped out of the lavender beds, With mob-caps, or wigs, on their quaint little heads; My lord had a sword and my lady a fan; The music struck up and the dancing began. I watched them go through with a grave minuet; Wherever they footed the dew was not wet; They bowed and they curtsied, the brave and the fair; And laughter like chirping of crickets was there. Then all on a sudden a church clock struck loud: A flutter, a shiver, was seen in the crowd, The cock crew, the wind woke, the trees tossed their heads, And the fairy folk hid in the lavender beds. |
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