WHEN May is here, and every morn Is dappled with pied bells, And dewdrops glance along the thorn And wings flash in the dells, I take my pipe and play a tune Of dreams, a whispered melody, For feet that dance beneath the moon In fairy jollity. And when the pastoral hills are grey And the dim stars are spread, A scamper fills the grass like play Of feet where fairies tread. And many a little whispering thing Is calling to the Shee. The dewy bells of evening ring, And all is melody. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAST REDOUBT by ALFRED AUSTIN DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK; A TRUE STORY by ROBERT BURNS THE INDIAN EMPEROR: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN SUMMER IN ENGLAND, 1914 by ALICE MEYNELL MOTHER'S WORLD by MARGARET H. ALDEN VERSES WRITTEN IN THE LEAVES OF AN IVORY POCKET-BOOK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 1 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |