Where a rock was rearing its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepped—
Most beautiful things were seen
By morning's first light! There were flowers and trees,
With bevies of birds and swarms of bright bees;
There were cities—temples, and towers; and these,
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But one thing he did that was hardly fair—