In Fairyland
The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.
My love I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are —
For I could praise her there.
Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.
My love I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are —
For I could praise her there.
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