The Fairy Rings (continued)

Aye, almost Scripture-truths! — My poorer mind
Grows into worship of these mysteries,
While Fancy doth her ancient scrolls unbind
That Time hath hid in countless centuries;
And when the morning's mist doth leave behind
The fungus round, and mushroom white as snow,
They strike me, to romantic moods inclined,
As shadows of things modelled long ago:
Halls, palaces, and marble columned domes,
And modern shades of fairies' ancient homes,
Erected in these rings and pastures still,
For midnight balls and revelry; and then
Left like the ruins of all ancient skill,
To wake the wonder of mere common men.