Song, its soul that overfloweth,

Never nightingale's heart feeleth—

Such the love the spirit groweth,

Love unconscious if it healeth.

[Pg 29]

[Pg 29]

16

 He, after a pause, lightly:

An elf there is who stables the hot

Red wasp that stings on 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 straddles, with cap cocked all awry,

The bottle-blue back o' the dragon-fly.

And this is the elf who sips and sips

From clover-horns whence the perfume drips;

And, drunk with dew, in the glimmering gloam

Awaits the wild-bee's coming home;

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