Born from rotting grasses damp
Still the daylight thou must fear,
On my scroll thy tiny lamp
Scarcely lets the words appear.
But on stranger's dress from far
Shinest thou a tender star.
Or when wind-borne on the gauze
Of my window making pause,
Small thy phosphorescent beam
As a fairy's eye doth gleam.
From the rain you safely hide
In the woodland undescried.
But once November's frosts are chill
Thou leaflike fadest from the hill.