1. “Swift that Night is drawing near, When your abrupt and jovial cheer, Mixes in our misty dance, Meeting else by rarest chance. We love dark undew’d recesses Of the leafy wildernesses, Or to hide in some cold flow’r, Shelter’d from the sunlight hour, And more afflictive mortal eye.” 2. “Gladly, gladly, do I spy Human children playing nigh, Feel, and so must you, the grace Of a loving human face. Else why come you in this place? O, my Sister, if we might Show ourselves to mortal sight Far more often! if they knew Half the friendly turns we do! Even now, a gentle thought Would pay my service dimly wrought, Round these winding garden-walks, Fruits and flow’rs and leaves and stalks. Paler favourites of the noon, Can ye give or take such boon?” 1. “Chantings, Brother, hear you might, Softly sung through still of night; Calling from the wëird North Dreams like distant echoes forth, Till through curtain’d shades they creep, To inlay the gloomy floor of sleep For babes, and souls that babe-like are: So we bless them from afar Like a faint but favouring star. —But tell me how in fields or bowers Thou hast spent these morning hours?” 2. “Through the tall hedge I have been, Shadowy wall of crusted green, Within whose heart the birds are seen. Speeding swiftly thence away To the crowning chestnut-spray, I watch’d a Tyrant steal along Would slay the sweet Thrush in her song; Warned, she soon broke off from singing, There we left the branchlet swinging. Whispering Robin, down the walk, News of poising, pouncing Hawk, The Sycamore I next must strew On every leaf with honey-dew. And hither now from clouds I run, For all my morning work is done.” 1. “Alas, I wither in the sun, Witless drawn to leave my nest Ere the day be laid to rest! But to-night we lightly troop By the young Moon’s silver hoop; Weaving wide our later ranks As on evening river-banks Shifting crowds of midges glance Through mazes of their airy dance: O might you come, O might you see All our shadow’d revelry! Yet the next night shall be rarer, Next and next and next, still fairer; We are waxing every night, Till our joy be full and bright; Then as slowly do we wane With gentle loss that makes no pain, For thus are we with life endued: Ye, I trow, have rougher food.”