The Death of Tuck

I fear that Puck is dead, — it is so long
Since men last saw him; — dead with all the rest
Of that sweet elfin crew that made their nest
In hollow nuts, where hazels sing their song;
Dead and for ever, like the antique throng
The elves replaced: the Dryad that you guess'd
Behind the leaves; the Naiad weed-bedress'd;
The leaf-ear'd Faun that loved to lead you wrong.

Tell me, thou hopping Robin, hast thou met
A little man, no bigger than thyself,
Whom they call Puck, where woodland bells are wet?