Thou freaksome, light-limbed elf, whom none may follow
With eye or ear, so changeful is thy bent,
Sing now thy catchy song, so innocent
And young in melody, that nice Apollo
Hath hearkened it well-pleased. Again from out
Thy hiding-place, in the thick-spireing grass,
Its short, sweet shrillness send. This bower about
Let it still restless run, and whirling pass.
Eachwhere in shortest space of one fleet minute,
Swifter than sudden Thought can think of thee.
They're here who love thy voice, and deem there's in it
A natural delight, which pure Simplicity
May listen to unblushingly, with her meek
Turned head, and wonder-smiling cheek.