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You’d fancy the rainbow’s painted dome 
A fitting home 
For creatures so airy, so light, so gay. 
As the dragon-flies all in the breeze at play. 
And, poised on the tips 
Of their tiny feet. 
They steal from our lips 
A kiss so fleet, 
That, ere our delicate heads are tost 
In feigned anger, the thief is lost. 
Gone—flitting along o’er moor and lea. 
Where the thistle-down sails so airily. 
How soft in the gloaming 
\ 
Our melody floats. 
When night-winds are roaming 
And wafting our notes 
Around and about in cadence sweet ! 
Oft, when this breezy strain ye meet. 
Ye gaze around. 
Chasing the sound. 
And, marvelling whence the strain is springing. 
Murmur, “ how softly the wind is singing! ” 
We chime too gently for ye to tell 
The silvery voice of the little Harebell. 
No rock is too high — no vale too low— 
For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow: 
