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.