Titania

A molehill is her throne,

Green with fine moss and garlanded with webs, Where in the noonday heat she sits, Hardly supporting in her thin white hands A harebell globe of frozen dew.

Leaves tumbling over Wink in the purple sky. A wind too tired too blow Quietly sidles by

And hands in pockets at the hawthorn gate Whistles a lullaby.

A smile goes drifting through her eyes, Ruffles darkly and is gone- The shadow sweeps across the green Of hunchback Oberon.