There are some things that entertain me more
Than men or books; and to my knowledge seem
A key of Poetry, made of magic lore
Of childhood, opening many a fabled door
Of superstition, mystery, and dream

Enchantment locked of yore.

For, when through dusking woods my pathway lies,
Often I feel old spells, as o’er me flits
The bat, like some black thought that, troubled, flies
Round some dark purpose; or before me cries
The owl that, like an evil conscience, sits

A shadowy voice and eyes.

Then, when down blue canals of cloudy snow
The white moon oars her boat, and woods vibrate
With crickets, lo, I hear the hautboys blow
Of Elf-land; and when green the fireflies glow,
See where the goblins hold a Fairy Fête

With lanthorn row on row.

Strange growths, that ooze from long-dead logs and spread
A creamy fungus, where the snail, uncoiled,
And fat slug feed at morn, are Pixy bread
Made of the yeasted dew; the lichens red,
Besides these grown, are meat the Brownies broiled

Above a glow-worm bed.

The smears of silver on the webs that line
The tree’s crook’d roots, or stretch, white-wove, within
The hollow stump, are stains of Faery wine
Spilled on the cloth where Elf-land sat to dine,
When night beheld them drinking, chin to chin,

O’ the moon’s fermented shine.

What but their chairs the mushrooms on the lawn,
Or toadstools hidden under flower and fern,
Tagged with the dotting dew!-With knees updrawn
Far as his eyes, have I not come upon
PUCK seated there? but scarcely ’round could turn

Ere, presto! he was gone.

And so though Science from the woods hath tracked
The Elfin; and with prosy lights of day
Unhallowed all his haunts; and, dulling, blacked
Our eyesight, still hath Beauty never lacked
For seers yet; who, in some wizard way,

Prove Fancy real as Fact.