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By Lucy Maud Montgomery

The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,
 And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,
Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds
 Over the pools and the whimpering rills;
And with her the mists, like dryads that creep
 From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,
Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,
 With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.
Down on the marshlands with flicker, and glow
 Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,
Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago
 By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.
The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,
 Akin to all eerie and elfin things,
Who weaves about us in meadow and mere
 The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.