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That, drooping, clusters round
The tall and spiral stem,
Each one bedecked and broidered
With many a fairy gem:
Why Foxgloves are they hight?
They're Fairy-caps, I ween—
Oft in the moony light
The elfin folk are seen
Trooping and frisking out,
With tiny silv'ry shout,
Forth to the circlet green;
And trumpet-notes, through woodbine florets blown,
Herald King Oberon, whose royal throne
Poised on a snow-white mushroom straight appears;
His retinue, well armed with keen grass spears,
Proud Foxglove helms, and daisy shields, stand round,
Like strange flowers, spell-called from the dew-bright ground.
Queen Mab and her gay fairy-maidens trace
A measure on the turf, with airy grace:
Their music the soft Harebell's silv'ry peals,
And distant rippling of the brook, that steals
Through the dim forest shade. Such fairies be,
Creatures of fancy, joy, and revelrie.
The green and graceful Fern,
How beautiful it is!
There's not a leaf in all the land
