XXII.

A moment and its lustre fell,

But ere it met the billow blue,

He caught within his crimson bell,

A droplet of its sparkling dew--

Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done,

Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won--

Cheerly ply thy dripping oar,

And haste away to the elfin shore.

The Culprit Fay, and Other Poems · 第 25 / 86 题