Through the branching tree-tops, 
’Neath their darkened leaves, 
Where each glancing light-shaft 
Golden network weaves, 
Twitt’ring, flutt’ring, climbing, 
Roams our joyous band, 
Like Spring’s welcome sunshine 
Flooding winter’s land. 
Old birds full of wisdom, 
Fledglings void of guile, 
Innocence protect them 
From the fowler’s wile ! 
Saucy-crested cocktails, 
Sober cautious tits — 
Rivals, each one frolics, 
Each one onward flits. 
Here the Small Folk nightly 
Dance their customed rounds. 
O’er unshaken dewdrops 
Where the rabbit bounds, 
Clumps of stately folks’ bells 
Where elves green-clad swung; 
Here our course is chosen, 
Here our call-notes flung. 
Where the long-tressed beeches 
Squirrel-haunted stand, 
Twitt’ring, flutt’ring, calling 
Roams our joyous band : 
Near unsullied fountains 
In lone forest ways 
Yours be moonlight, fairies, 
Ours these sunny days ! 
