BLOOMS OF THE BERRY



THE ELF'S SONG.

         I.



W    HERE thronged poppies with globed shields
           Of fierce red
     Warrior all the harvest fields
           Is my bed.
     Here I tumble with the bee,
     Robber bee of low degree
           Gay with dust:
     Wit ye of a bracelet bold
     Broadly belting him with gold
     It was I who bound it on
     When a-gambol on the lawn-
           It can never rust.



II.



Where the glow-worm lights his lamp
      There am I;
Where within the grasses damp
      Crickets cry.
Cheer'ly, cheer'ly in the burne
Where the lins the torrents churn
      Into foam,



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