Hist! Are they elfin thingsAstride the moon-rays?Certes, how they do liltAnd leer at me,—inconsequential fays—Silver threads they've spunFine, fine as silkAnd shining as the sun.Ah! People of that ilk,Such eerie things they do;Moon-folk they areOr from some neighboring starHave taken flight—Hist!Ah! What's this, and this,Soft as a flower's kiss?I'm spun about! Is'tThey have me caught?Certes! Strange folk they are,Quick as a thought.Hist! They are elfin things.
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