When the last colours of the day <br />Have from their burning ebbed away, <br />About that ruin, cold and lone, <br />The cricket shrills from stone to stone; <br />And scattering o'er its darkened green, <br />Bands of fairies may be seen, <br />Clattering like grasshoppers, their feet <br />Dancing a thistledown dance round it: <br />While the great gold of the mild moon <br />Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.<br /><br />Walter de la Mare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ruin-3/
