Where the Pixies Play
In the meadow, under a pine, at the edge of the wood,
right at my feet, the yellow mushroom stood.
Nothing but an ordinary mushroom by day,
but at night, it's where the pixies play.
Fluttering about with the fireflies;
giggling, whispering, and batting their eyes;
they play hide and seek among the clover,
flitting about, under and over.
They frolic and dance with the other sprites,
whiling away the starlit nights.
When at last the sun begins to rise,
they rest their heads and close their eyes,
but they'll be back when the stars shine,
on the mushroom, in the meadow, under a pine,
which looks so ordinary during the day,
but at night, it's where the pixies play.
