The Dim-Winged Spirits Of The Night Do Fear And Serve Me Well. They Creep From Out The Hedges Of The Garden Where I Dwell. I Wave My Arms Across The Walk. The Troops Obey The Sign, And Bring Me Shimmering Shadow-Robes And Cups Of Cowslip-Wine. Then Dig A Treasure Called The Moon, A Very Precious Thing, And Keep It In The Air For Me Because I Am A King.