He has counted them all with click and stroke
Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak;
And he has awakened the sentry-elve
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry.
. . . . . . . . .
They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly