Upon the busy elves

That dropp'd their spools of gossamer,
To dangle and to dry,
And scurried home to the hollow fir
Where the white owl winks an eye.

Nor you, nor I, nor Burd so blithe
Had driven them in this haste;
But the old, old man, so lean and lithe,
That afar behind us paced;
So lean and lithe, with shoulder'd scythe,
And a whetstone at his waist.

Within the gate, in a grassy round
Whence they had earliest flown,
He upside-down'd his scythe, and ground
Its edge with careful hone.
But we heeded not, if we heard, the sound,
For the world was ours alone;
The world was ours!--and with a bound
The conquering Sun upshone!

And while as from his level ray
We stood our eyes to screen.
The world was not as yesterday
Our homelier world had been--
So grey and golden-green it lay
All in his quiet sheen,
That wove the gold into the grey,