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THE CHIME OF THE HAREBELLS.
Over the moorland, over the lea,
Dancing airily, there are we;
Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft,
We wave o'er Broom and Heather,
To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft:
Sometimes, close together,
Tired of dancing, tired of peeping,
Under the whin you'll find us sleeping:
Nodding about and dreaming too;
Dreaming of fairy cups of dew—
Dreaming of music, soft and low
As the melodies that flow
In tiniest ripples along the pool,
In Summer twilights dim,
When the night-wind's breath is cool,
And downy owlets skim
Lightly along from shore to shore,
Flitting about, as if they bore
Upon their trembling wings
(That ne'er are seen by day)
Dreams and visions, fantastic things,
That people the Lily's slumberings
With a shadowy array
