THE LITTLE PEOPLE

I When the lily nods in slumber, And the roses are all sleeping; When the night hangs deep and umber, And the stars their watch are keeping: When the clematis uncloses Like a hand of snowy fire; And the golden-lipped primroses, To the tiger-moths' desire, Each a mouth of musk unpuckers— Silken pouts of scented sweetness, Which they sip with honey-suckers:— Shod with hush and winged with fleetness, You may see the Little People, Round and round the drowsy steeple Of a belfried hollyhock,— Clad in phlox and four-o'-clock, Gay of gown and pantaloon,— Dancing by the glimmering moon, Till the cock, the long-necked cock, Crows them they must vanish soon. II When the cobweb is a cradle For the dreaming dew to sleep in; And each blossom is a ladle That the perfumed rain lies deep in: When the flaming fireflies scribble Darkness as with lines flame-tragic, And the night seems some dim sibyl Speaking gold, or wording magic Silent-syllabled and golden: Capped with snapdragon and hooded With the sweet-pea, vague-beholden, You may see the Little People Underneath the sleepy steeple Of a towering mullein stock, Trip it over moss and rock To the owlet's elvish tune, And the tree-toad's gnome-bassoon; Till the cock, the barnyard cock, Crows them they must vanish soon. III When the wind upon the water Seems a boat of ray and ripple, That some fairy moonbeam-daughter Steers, with sails that drift and dripple; When the sound of grig and cricket, Ever singing, ever humming, Seems a goblin in the thicket On his elfin viol strumming; When the toadstool, coned and milky, Heaves a roof for snails to clamber, Thistledown- and milkweed-silky, With loose locks of jade and amber, You may see the Little People, Underneath the pixy steeple Of a doméd mushroom, flock, Quaint in wildflower vest and frock, Whirling by the waning moon To the whippoorwill's weird tune, Till the cock, the far-off cock, Crows them they must vanish soon.