60 
Sljariutfj. 
Over the moorland, over the lea, 
Dancing airily, there are we: 
Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft, 
We wave o’er broom and heather, 
To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft; 
Sometimes, close together, 
Tired of dancing, tired of peeping, 
Under the whin you’ll find us sleeping. 
Daintily bend we our honied bells, 
While the gossipping bee her story tells, 
And drowsily hums and murmurs on 
Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone; 
And though she gathers our sweets the while, 
We welcome her in with a nod and a smile. 
No rock is too high—no vale too low, 
For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow. 
Sometimes we crown 
The castle’s dizziest tower, and look 
Laughingly down 
On the pigmy men in the world below, 
Wearily wandering to and fro. 
Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest 
Of mountain high, 
And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea’s breast, 
Climbing the sky, 
Looks from his couch of glory up, 
And lights the dew in the bluebell’s cup. 
We are crowning the mountain 
With azure bells, 
Or decking the fountains 
In forest dells, 
Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gray, 
