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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 thisile-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:
