Fays
One secret night, I stood where ocean pours
Eternal waters on the yellow shores,
And saw the drift of fays that Prosper saw:
(Their feet had no more sound than blowing straw.)
And little hands held light in little hands
They chased a fleeing billow down the sands,
But turned in the nick o’ time, and mad with glee
Raced back again before the swelling sea.