When the sky is blue and burning and the clouds a downy mass,
When the breeze is idly dawdling, there is music in the grass—
Just a thistly, whistly sound
In the tangles near the ground;
And the flitting fairies often stop to listen as they pass.
Just a lisping, whisp’ring tune,
Like a bumblebee’s bassoon,
In a far-away fantasia, is the music in the grass.
II
Would you know what makes the music? On each slender, quivering blade