IN the moony brake,
When we laugh and wake,
And our dance begins,
Violets hang their chins.
Fast asleep ;
While we laugh and leap.
Woodbine leaves above,
Each a tiny dove.
Roost upon the bare
Winter stems, and there
Peaceful cling ;
While we shout and sing.
On the rooty earth
Ferns of April's birth,
Brown and closely furled,
Sleep like squirrels curled
Warm and still ;
While we frisk our fill.
Hark ! our ears have caught
Sound of breath and snort
Near our beechen tree
Mixing carelessly.
Sprites, away!
Fly as if 'twere day !
* * * *
Silence ! on the ground
Set the toadstool round.
Of these mortals twain
We to talk will deign,
Grave and wise,
Till the morning rise.
