" THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT "

A Y , Dwainie! — My Dwainie!
The lurloo ever sings,
A tremor in his flossy crest
And in his glossy wings.
And Dwainie! — My Dwainie!
The winno-welvers call; —
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland
And answers not at all.

The teeper twitters Dwainie! —
The tcheucker on his spray
Teeters up and down the wind,
And will not fly away:
And Dwainie! — My Dwainie!
The drowsy oovers drawl; —
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland
And answers not at all.

O Dwainie! — My Dwainie!
The breezes hold their breath, —
The stars are pale as blossoms,
And the night as still as death;
And Dwainie! — My Dwainie!
The fainting echoes fall; —
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland
And answers not at all.