Fairies

There's a little fairy who Peeps from every dropp of dew: You can see him wink and shine On the morning-glory vine, Mischief in his eye of blue. There's another fairy that Rides upon the smallest gnat: You can hear him tremolo When the summer dusk falls slow, Circling just above your hat. And another one that sways In the golden slanted rays Of the sunlight where it floats: Prosy people call them motes, But they're fairies, father says. But there's one that no one sees, Only, maybe, moths and bees; Who in lofts, where knot-holes are, On the thin light of a star Slides through crannied crevices. You may hear him sigh and sing Near a May-fly's captured wing In a spider-web close by: See him with a moonbeam pry Moonflowers open where they swing. Down the garden-ways he goes On a beetle's back, and blows Sullen music from a horn: Or you'll hear him when 't is morn Buzzing bee-like by a rose. And it's he who, when 't is night, Twinkles with a firefly light; Shakes a katydid tambourine; Or amid the mossy green Rasps his cricket-fiddle tight. He it is who heaves the dome Of the mushroom through the loam, Plumper than a baby's thumb: Or who taps a tinder drum In the dead wood's honeycomb. He's that Robin Goodfellów, Or that Puck who, long ago, Used to marshlight-lead astray People in old Shakespeare's day That is, father told me so. He's the one that, in the Fall, Frisks the dead leaves round us all; Herds them; drives them wildly past, Dancing with them just as fast As a boy can throw a ball. Wonder what he looks like. Asked Father once. He said he'd tasked Mind and soul to find out, but It was harder than a nut; Just refused to be unmasked. Though he thought, perhaps, he might Find out some time, and delight Telling me; but well he knew He was like my questions, too, Teasing and confusing quite.