By Nora May French

All elfish woodland things that Fancy broods—
  The comrades of my solitary moods—
Would crouch when heavy footsteps passed them by,
And peer from shelter—freakish folk and shy.

At you they pricked their furry ears in doubt;
Then, "This one sees—he knows!" they cried.
        "Come out!"
They thought to hush their piping till you passed.
"Come out!" they cried. "We dare be brave at last!"

So forth they gay procession sways and weaves;
And some are crowned with roses, some with leaves,
And all are mine, but some I never knew.
I could not wake them, but they come for you.