With air of one who tells new truth,
The gentle May, with touch of ruth,
This tale of Elfland sweetly told,
While all stood deep in autumn's gold:
"Long, long ago the fairies found
Their homes in flowers on the ground.
The buttercups were full of them,
And pansies sparkled like a gem.
But fields by men were often mown,
The flowers were plucked as soon as grown.
Thus without tents to shed cold dews,
The pixies lost their brilliant hues.
Their kirtles green and mantles gold
Were crushed and torn and smeared with mould.
(You should have seen Mab's ermine cape,
Draggled in muck till black as crape!)
At last, his gossamer hammocks gone,
Their daylight king, bright Oberon,
(Who could not find two crimson heads
Of clover strung with spider-webs)