Ye Little Elves, Who Haunt Sweet Dells, Where Flowers With The Dew Commune, I Pray You Hush The Child, Cecil, With Windlike Song. O Little Elves, So White She Lieth, Each Eyelid Gentler Than The Flow'R Of The Bramble, And Her Fleecy Hair Like Smoke Of Gold. O Little Elves, Her Hands And Feet The Angels Muse Upon, And God Hath Shut A Glimpse Of Paradise In Each Blue Eye. O Little Elves, Her Tiny Body Like A White Flake Of Snow It Is, Drooping Upon The Pale Green Hood Of The Chill Snowdrop. O Little Elves, With Elderflower, And Pimpernel, And The White Hawthorn, Sprinkle The Journey Of Her Dreams: And, Little Elves, Call To Her Magically Sweet, Lest Of Her Very Tenderness She Do Forsake This Rough Brown Earth And Return To Us No More.