Revel of the Water-Sprites (1883)

     The moon hangs over the seas
          With her silver hemisphere,
Like a wattled hive for the golden bees
That swarm in the asphodel meadows and leas,
          Of the firmament deep and clear.
     All day have the winds been asleep
          In the folds of the purple msit,
Till their hush has lulled the drowsing deep
By the evening moonbeams kiss’d;
     And only a runaway Zephyr
          Steals off on noiseless wing,
     To toy with a Triton lover
          Where the merry mermaidens sing,
          And the mermen dance in a ring;
For the spirits of the water are glad to-night,
     And you hear their conch-horns blown,
     And the rustle of the dancers, a low, soft tone
Attuned to the mellow moonlight.

          Ah, yes! I hear, I see, 
          To-night is a revel of glee,
Of Jubilant gladness, and merry-make madness,
Clear frolic and fun, with no stormy commotion
To mar the mirth of the children of ocean.
     The giants of wrath, who lash the waves,
     Are asleep In their caves:
But the spirits who bend the ripple's bow
          Are out in the glow 
          Of the moon at her noon;
And the Nereids that rock and swing below.
          On ruffed ribbons of amber hue, 
     And hide in flosses of purple mosses 
That seem too slender for mortal view, 
          Their bubbles blow and upward throw,  
          Laughing and tossing them to and fro,
Glad at the sight, as they flashed into light,
To see Young Zephyr chase after their flight, 
          As a kitten at play with a leaf might go.

The half-moon that is in the sky
     Is calm and tender as moon may be,
Like a dreamy lover’s half=shut eye
     That sees what open eyes never see;
          The other half lies near to me
          In a rocky pool hereby;
But it cannot peacefully lie
For the water-sprites are tossing it
In a rollick, frolic, merry fit
          Of most fantastic glee,
As Zephyr is tossing the bubbles that round her fly;
     And where the harp of Lyra shines
In the mirror their dances fret,
     They twist its chords into spiral lines,
And tangle the stars in the golden net,
     Like fireflies caught in the snares the deft arachnae set.
          Little the water-sprites care
          For the beings of upper air,
In their dancings and prancings, their wreathings and bathings
The moon and the stars are their beautiful play things,
Crushed into luminous dust by the gay things!

          Glittering, twittering, tittering,
Now in the air, and now in the water,
And now far under, gone down like an otter;
     I see them, I hear them,
     My rock-bed is near them;
     Graceful and undulate, nothing can peer them.
The nymphs, afloat in a pearly boat,
Just break the glass with a bubbling note;
Over their bosoms the wave slips thin,
White and round, from the life withing,
     With a motion that mocks
All grace of action, however rare.
They lift their heads from their shelly beds,
     And shake aloft their dripping locks
The wealth of their jewelled hairl
          Tossing their white arms up
They leap like a flash in the gladdened air,
Hand and glutter a moment there,
Then downward so lightly they drop
     The little footprint makes hardly a dint
In the flexile waters, and still no stop.
          Away they fly,
          Laughing till the shores reply;
Hither and thither, every way, flinging the spray,
     Which again they catch in a pearly cup
     And toss at each other in play.

          Sometimes up the sandy reach
          Of the long and level beach,
     They hurry and run, with laugh and shout,
     Clap their hands, and, wheeling about,
          Slide adown the easy slope,
     As boys do on the winter snow,
     Then with a graceful curve leap out 
     And plunge in the wave below.
Sometimes the mermen’s jolly troop—
          To tease them in their game—
     Glide near, and, rising behind a rock,
Strike their palms and give one whoop,
     Till the granite feels the shock.
Then scatter the timid sprites away
     Like the shepherd’s startled flock,
Or sparks that leap from the hammer’s sway
     When the white-hot steel is struck;
          Into the air, into the sea
          Everywhere that one could flee,
Under the edges of weed-hung ledges,
     And down the long eel-grass,
Or close ashore among biting sedges
     Where their teasers cannot pass.

Thus all the night, in the white moonlight,
     While the Titan sleeps, they play,
But hide in their caves, when he wakes and raves,
     Till his anger is soothed away.