Beneath our old oak tree I found
Some acorn-cups, as smooth and round
As really-truly cups of tea.
I’m very sure that they must be
The dishes that the fairies use
When they have tea, and drink the dews
That gather on the rose-leaf tips
And at the honeysuckle’s lips.
I think some night when I am grown,
I’ll go and watch there all alone,
And see the fairies eat and sup,
Each with his tiny acorn-cup.


The Market-woman in the sky
Is picking geese again tonight.
She flings the feathers far and high;
They flutter downward, still and white,
And settle slowly, flake by flake,
In shining heaps where they are tossed,
Quite wide and deep enough to make
A feather-bed for old Jack Frost.