Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine.
All day they’re playing in their Sunday dress—
When night reposes they can do no less;
Then to the heath-bell’s purple hood they fly,
And like to princes in their slumbers, lie
Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all
On silken beds in roomy, painted hall.
So merrily they spend their summer day,
Or in the corn-fields, or in new-mown hay.
One almost fancies that such happy things,