No fiction was it of the antique age:
	A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,
	Is of the very footmarks unbereft
	Which tiny Elves impressed;--on that smooth stage

	Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
	In secret revels--haply after theft
	Of some sweet Babe--Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
	For the distracted Mother to assuage

	Her grief with, as she might!--But, where, oh! where
	Is traceable a vestige of the notes
	That ruled those dances wild in character?--
	Deep underground? Or in the upper air,
	On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floats
	O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?

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