Classic Poem

They come from beds of lichen green.
They creep from the mullein's velvet screen:
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,
And rocked about in the evening breeze:
Some from the humbird's downy nest--
They had driven him out by elfin power.
And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
With glittering ising-stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o'clock,
And stole within its purple shade.
And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above--below--on every side.
Their little minim forms arrayed,
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.