SONG OF THE ELF
There's
a wee little elf in our garden
So
brown, so tiny and gay
I've
seen him many, many times
At
last I heard him say
My
bed's in the heart of the roses
I
drink the dew from the morn
I
steal from a bud its nectar
And
defend myself with a thorn
I
weave with the web of a spider
The
birds accompany my song
Butterflies
carry me thither
I'm
happy all the day long.
--Mary Miller (1942)