When the last colors of the day Have from their burning ebbed away, About that ruin, cold and lone, The cricket shrills from stone to stone; And scattering o'er its darkened green, Bands of the fairies may be seen, Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet Dancing a thistledown dance round it: While the great gold of the mild moon Tinges their tiny acorn shoon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE by GEORGE DARLEY TO ONE IN BEDLAM by ERNEST CHRISTOPHER DOWSON THE STARLIGHT NIGHT by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE WOODSPURGE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI PRAYER FOR THIS HOUSE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE FEILIRE OF ADAMNAN by ADAMNAN |