And all her rusty locks were wreathed with twisted mistletoe;
But never a dint, or mark, or print, in the whiteness for to see,
Though danced she high, though danced she fast, though danced she lissomely.
It seemed 'twas diamonds in the air, or little flakes of frost;
It seemed 'twas golden smoke around, or sunbeams lightly tost;
It seemed an elfin music like to reeds and warblers rose:
'Nay!' Lucy said, 'it is the wind that through the branches flows.'
And as she peeps, and as she peeps, 'tis no more one, but three,
And eye of bat, and downy wing of owl within the tree,
And the bells of that sweet belfry a-pealing as before,