Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through brier,
Over park, over pale,
Through flood, through fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere.
For, at one moment, you behold “the fine apparition” before the cup of a flower, and at the next he is gone
“To drink the air before him and return
Or ere your pulse twice beat.”
The bright little beings must own the very best secret of the fairies; for none, so well as they,