When the soul casts its slough of mortal fear.
And now they make rich spangles in the grass,
Gilding the night-dews on the tender blade;
Then hover o’er the meadow-pools, to gaze
At their bright forms shrined in the dreamy glass
Which earth, and air, and bounteous rain have made.
One moment, and the thicket is ablaze
With twinkling lamps, which swing from bough to bough;
Another, and like sylphids they descend
To cheer the brook-side where the bell-flow’rs grow,