Here and there, in light and shade,
Ill-assorted couples strayed:
“Lord,” said Puck, in elfish glee,
“Lord, what fools these mortals be!”
Now he sings the self-same tune
Underneath an older moon.
Life to him is, plain enough,
Still a game of blind man’s buff.
If we listen we may hear
Puckish laughter always near,