And barley fields nod to and fro.
The lily turns its chalice up
To catch the legends as they fall,
And on the blue-bell’s tiny cup
Rings many a fairy festival.
The brooklet o’er the meadow spreads,
And then, like elves, they dance and sing;
And clovers hang their blushing heads,
Like little creatures listening.
It is some good thing they relate;