You elfin creature of these underwoods,
Poised in a plat of moonlight on ethereal
Pinions, beside my secret mountain-spring,
Upon a rock, akimbo and imperial,
You little Mischief, pert as any king,
Are you some insect-spirit of the floods,
Or is your quaint diaphanous material
Some eery distillation of the mist;
Or braid of tickling gossamers atwist?
And can you weep or tell me anything?