“She brooks no condescension from mortal hand, you know,
For, touch her e’er so gently, impatiently she’ll throw
Her tiny little jewels, concealed in pockets small
Of her dainty, graceful garment, and o’er the ground they fall.
Her tiny magic jewels may be a fairy’s gift,
For scattered by the brookside they soon small leaflets lift.
What mortal knows the secrets of Flora’s children shy,
Concealed in field and meadow, that with the flowers die?”