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Of forms that Flowers know and see
When they are dreaming, e'en as we
Merry Harebells do
On the heathery lea.
Maiden—do not you
Often wish you were a Flower,
Spending one or two
Merry days in greenwood bower,
As the Harebells do,
Dancing, and waving, and ringing in glee,
Over the moorland and over the lea?
Daintily bend we our honeyed bells
While the gossiping bee her story tells,
And drowsily hums and murmurs on
Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone,
And though she gathers our sweets the while,
We welcome her in with a nod and a smile.
Darting about
Now in, now out,
Aloft, adown, in angles, rings,
And every form of swiftest flight,
Like arrows, guided by glittering wings,
The dragon-flies play in the sunshine bright,
That tinges their forms of chamelion hue
