Classic Poem

Is't here the fairies haunt the place,
And o'er the green with witching grace
Trip to the merry roundelay?
Is't here the shepherd pipes his note
Where fair the water lilies float,
And plaintively the pine trees sway?

This is a vale of dreams: anigh,
In dreamy cadence flutt'ring by,
Soft woodland murmurs grow apace.
The clouds so pure, drift there on high,
Repose seems gazing from the sky
With wistful beauty in her face.

Yes, this is fairyland! but where
May be the sportive elves who share
This sylvan solitude? To-day
No footstep lingers on the green,
The quiet song of waves, I ween,
Echoes no more the roundelay.

Life is not spent in Fairyland;
The Spirit that this beauty planned,
Gave each a duty to fulfill.
We may, light-hearted, like the fay,
Sing gladsome songs from day to day,
If we fail not to do His will.