A Rhyme of Robin Puck

Howsoe’er the tale be spread,
Puck, the pranksome, is not dead.

At such tidings of mishap,
Any breeze-blown columbine
Would but toss a scarlet cap,--
Would but laugh, with shaken head,
“Trust it not, do not repine,
Puck, the pranksome, is not dead!”
If you know not what to think,
Ask the tittering bobolink;
Straightway shall the answer rise
Bubbling from his gleeful breast:
“Dead? ’Tis but his latest jest!
Robin Puck, the wild and wise,
Frolics on, and never dies!”

Had we but the elfin sight,
On some pleasant summer night
We should see him and his crew
In the fields that gleam with dew;
Had we but the elfin ear,
(Pointed sharply like a leaf,)
In the meadows we should hear
Fairy pipings, fine and brief,
Shrilled through throats of tiniest flowers;
Would that subtler sense were ours!

Tricksy Puck! I shall not tell
How it is I know him well.
Swift yet clumsy, plump yet wee,
Brown as hazel-nut is he;
And from either temple springs
Such a waving, hair-like horn
As by butterflies is worn;
Glassy-clear his glistening wings,
Like the small green-bodied flies’
In the birch-woods; and his eyes,
Set aslant, as blackly shine
As the myriad globes wherein
The wild blackberry keeps her wine;
And his voice is piercing thin,
But he changes that at will--
Mocking rogue!--with birdlike skill.
How it is I must not tell,
But you see I know him well.

Ah! with some rare, secret spell
Should we bathe in moonlit dew
Eyes that this world’s book have read,
We should see him and his crew
In the dreamy summer dell:
For, howe’er the tale be spread,
Puck, the pranksome, is not dead!