Magic Night

The moon comes over the deep of the woods,

And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,

Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds

Over the pools and the whimpering rills;

And with her the mists, like dryads that creep

From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid-springs,

Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,

With the wind on the hills their gay revelings.

Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow

Wanders Will-o'-Wisp through the night,

Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago

By the glimmer of goblin latern-light.

The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,

Akin to all eerie and elfin things,

Who weaves about us in meadow and mere

The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.