DOWN in the fields where the poppies thrust
Over the flax their scarlet tops,
The bluish mist is stealing up
To the very edge of Mirabel's copse.
Deep in the heart of the chestnut-wood,
Where never a mortal was known to dwell,
Sleeping by day, and waking by night,
Liveth the fairy Mirabel.
Bright is her eye and ruddy her cheek,
And over her brow is a circlet fair
Of violets, lilies, and columbines,
All interlaced with her raven hair.
Now it is night, and the moon is up,
And lazily murmurs the brook in the dell;
I'll pause at the shadowy edge of her copse,
And wait for the coming of Mirabel.