From grassy blades, and ferny shades,
My happy comrades hie;
Now day declines, bright Hesper shines,
And Night invades the sky.
From noon-day pranks, and thymy banks,
To Dolydd's dome repair,
For our's the joy that cannot cloy,
And mortals cannot share.

The light-latch'd door, the well-swept floor,
The hearth so trim and neat,
The blaze so clear, the water near,
The pleasant circling seat;
With proper care, your needs prepare;
Your tuneful labours bring;
And day shall haste to tinge the east,
Ere we shall cease to sing.

But first I'll creep where mortals sleep,
And form the blissful dream;
I'll hover near the maiden dear,
That keeps this hearth so clean:
I'll shew her when that best of men,
So rich in manly charms,
Her Einion true, in best of blue,
Shall bless her longing arms.

Your little sheaves, or primrose leaves,
Your acorns, berries — spread;
Let kernels sweet increase the treat,
And flowers their fragrance shed;
And when 'tis o'er, we'll crowd the floor,
In jocund pairs advance:
No voice be mute, and each shrill flute
Shall cheer the mazy dance.

When morning breaks, and man awakes
From sleep's restoring hours,
The flocks, the field, his house we yield,
To his more active powers.
While clad in green, unheard, unseen,
On sunny banks we'll play,
And give to man his little span —
His empire of the day.