FERN-LAND
For the magic mantles worn
Warily where mortals range,
And beside us
Now unseen, with glee deride us,
Laugh to scorn our trespass rash.
VI
Then the gnomes, that change to newts,
Lurk about the tree-fern's roots;
Their commander
Is the frog-mouthed salamander
Who will marshal in the sun
Red-backed lizards from the vines,
Eft and newt from bog and spring,—
Many a crested, horny thing
Sharp-eyed, fearsome,—and that one
With the loathly spotted lines!
Mortal heedeth
Him, whose breath of poison speedeth
Them that chafe the elfin king.
VII
Moths above, that feed on dew,
Flit their wings of gold and blue,—
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