Where you think a mermaid lay.

I have heard that it is best

If you gather it, warm and sweet,

Out of the dint of her left breast

Where you see her heart has beat.

Out of the dint in that sweet sand

Gather forty grains, I say;

Yet—if it fail you—understand,

There remains a better way.

Out of this you melt your glass

While the veils of night are drawn,

Whispering, till the shadows pass,

“Nixie—pixie—leprechaun!”

Then you blow your magic vial,

14

14

Shape it like a crescent moon,

Set it up and make your trial,

Singing, “Elaby, ah, come soon!”

Round the cloudy crescent go,

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