When they return there will be mirth
And music in the air,
And fairy rings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain;
No key-hole will be fairy-proof,
When green leaves come again.
THE ELF OF THE WOODLANDS
RETOLD FROM RICHARD HENGIST HORNE BY WILLIAM BYRON FORBUSH
One morning when the summer sun was still sleeping an Elf came up from below, tickling an oak-tree’s foot, skipping like a flea, and whispering mischievously to himself.
“With little legs straddling,
He dances about—
Pretends to be waddling—
Then leaps with a flout.
Now he stops—
Now he hops—
Now cautiously trips
On tiptoe
And sliptoe
He scuttles and skips;
Along the grass gliding,
Half dancing, half sliding.”
There was a pretty white cottage on the edge of the wood, and, with everybody quiet within, it also seemed asleep. Toward this cottage skipped the Elf.