I HAVE read in a worn old volume Of a mystic grave and gray Who saw in every flower And wind an elfin fay. And it filled the quaint old fellow With awe and anxious dread Of these creatures so quiet and dovelike Around him and overhead. So I too am surely a mystic, Though I'm neither grave nor gray, Nor believe in goblins and spectres Who frighten one's wits away. Yet I do believe in a fairy Who, though absent, still seems with me, And that fairy so loved and so loving, -- Who can it be, dearest, but thee? |