Dizzily round,

On the elf-hills, white in the mellow moonlight,

To a sweet, unholy, ravishing sound

Of wizard voices from underground,

Their mazy dance the Elle-maids wound

On St. John's Eve.

Beautiful white,

Like a wreath of mist by the starbeams kissed,

Their frail, sweet faces bloomed out of the night,

With floating tresses of firefly light,