No fiction was it of the antique age:
A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,
Is of the very foot-marks unbereft
Which tiny Elves impressed;–on that smooth stage
Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
In secret revels–haply after theft
Of some sweet Babe–Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
For the distracted Mother to assuage
Her grief with, as she might!–But, where, oh! where
Is traceable a vestige of the notes
That ruled those dances wild in character?–
Deep underground? Or in the upper air,
On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floats
O’er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog