This is a thing that no one knows; When every hedge in summer blows With twining vetch and brier-rose,
When every bud has burst its sheath, The white convolvulus’ wreath Is hung with blossoms underneath.
They are so faint and pale and shy They almost look as if they’d die Before the sun has left the sky.
What children, even if they tried, Could ever guess that, far inside Each bell, a little sprite may hide?
And who’d suppose that, in the night, When no one’s there to see the sight, They all unclose their trumpets white?
And, when the world is fast asleep, Out of the flowers these fairies creep And down into the lanes they peep.
They see the little tinker-boys Who have no home, no nurse, no toys, And O! so few of children’s joys.
And, as they watch them lying there With weary heads and feet all bare, They hover round them in the air;
Such lovely dreams for them they make That their tired feet no longer ache, And they are happy when they wake.
What do they show them? Glorious things; Whole palaces of queens and kings And birds that fly on golden wings.
And silent waters, winding far Through groves of trees where angels are, Lit by the trail of one blue star.
And, when they wake, these visions stay To help them on along their way And keep them cheerful all the day.
You want such dreams, you say to me? --Ah, if these wonders you would see A tinker’s child you’d have to be,
To wander far and wander wide From New Year’s Day to Christmastide, And then—you’d have to sleep outside.
But now the white moon walks the sky, So, from your beds, thank God on high, Because so soft and safe you lie.
--And yet, some day, however blest, You too may weary of your rest And think, perhaps, that dreams are best.
❦