The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods, <br />And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills, <br />Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds <br />Over the pools and the whimpering rills; <br /> <br />And with her the mists, like dryads that creep <br />From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs, <br />Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep, <br />With the wind on the hills their gay revellings. <br /> <br />Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow <br />Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night, <br />Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago <br />By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light. <br /> <br />The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear, <br />Akin to all eerie and elfin things, <br />Who weaves about us in meadow and mere <br />The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.<br /><br />Lucy Maud Montgomery<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-april-night/
