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)