Culprit Fay, The - Part 22

A moment and its lustre fell,
But ere it met the billow blue,
He caught within his crimson bell,
A droplet of its sparkling dew —
Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done,
Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won —
Cheerly ply thy dripping oar,
And haste away to the elfin shore.
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