Silently the moon conceals her
    Down behind the sombre trees,
  And the lamp which lights our chamber
    Flickers in the evening breeze.

  But the starry eyes are beaming
    Softly o’er the dimpled cheeks,
  And the purple rose is glowing,
    While the gentle maiden speaks.

  “Little people—­fairy goblins—­
    Steal away our meat and bread;
  In the chest it lies at evening,
    In the morning it has fled.

  “From our milk the little people
    Steal the cream and all the best;
  Then they leave the dish uncovered,
    And our cat drinks up the rest.

  “And the cat’s a witch, I’m certain,
    For by night, when storms arise,
  Oft she seeks the haunted hill-top
    Where the fallen tower lies.

  “There was once a splendid castle. 
    Home of joy and weapons bright,
  Where there swept in stately pageant
    Lady, page, and armed knight.

  “But a sorceress charmed the castle,
    With its lords and ladies fair;
  Now it is a lonely ruin,
    And the owls are nesting there.

  “But my aunt hath often told me,
    Could I speak the proper word,
  In the proper place up yonder,
    When the proper hour occurred,

  “I should see the ruins changing
    Swiftly to a castle bright,
  And again in stately dances
    Dame and page and gallant knight.

  “He who speaks the word of power
    Wins the castle for his own,
  And the knight with drum and trumpet
    Loud will hail him lord alone.”

  So the simple fairy pictures
    From the little rose-mouth bloom,
  And the gentle eyes are shedding
    Star-blue lustre through the gloom.

  Round my hand the little maiden
    Winds her gold locks as she will,
  Gives a name to every finger,
    Kisses, smiles, and then is still.

  All things in the silent chamber,
    Seem at once familiar grown,
  As if e’en the chairs and clothes-press,
    Well of old to me were known.

  Now the clock talks kindly, gravely,
    And the cithern, as ’twould seem,
  Of itself is faintly chiming,
    And I sit as in a dream.

  Now the proper hour is striking,
    Here the charm should now be heard;
  Child, how would’st thou be astonished,
    Should I speak the magic word!

  If I spoke that word, then fading
    Night would thrill in fearful strife;
  Trees and streams would roar together
    As the mountains woke to life.

  Ringing lutes and goblin ditties
    From the clefted rock would sound,
  Like a mad and merry spring-tide
    Flowers grow forest-high around.

  Thousand startling, wondrous flowers,
    Leaves of vast and fabled form,
  Strangely perfumed, wildly quivering,
    As if thrilled with passion’s storm.