From gnarled branch unto the tiniest spray.
O'er the soft moss-beds, by the streamlet's sheen,
And o'er the greensward, are the folded flowers;
A heaven of azure o'er the beauteous scene,
Doth watch the gliding of serenest hours.
The moon smiles fair upon the greenwood glade,
The red lips of the rose new fragrance shed,
And stealing forth, in radiant robes arrayed,
What sprites are those that merry measures tread?
These are the revels of the Fairyland—