by Henrietta Cordelia Ray
Sweet elfin music comes to me,
Across a glen embowered deep,
In rugged green. What fantasy
Did give it voice—like dreams in sleep—
Through fluted winds? An airy flood
Of cadences, dainty and soft
As rose leaves flutt'ring to the sod,
Enfolds the sense and feelings oft.
Through what air-woven lyres blow
The winsome elves? Chords interlaced
In sweetest rhythm lull me so,
Surely Titania must have graced
That weird rehearsal. Did they sup
On drowsy poppy flowers, ere
They sent vibrations o'er the strings,—
A breath of music, passing rare?
The elves, they strike such witching strains
They lull sad Sorrow fast asleep;
What heart is torn, what soul complains,
While they each sense in music steep!
Unwind your sylvan symphonies,
Ye weird musicians, breeze-like play,
Until your dulcet harmonies
Waft us to magic isles away.
Last updated March 26, 2023