by Leigh Hunt
We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.
When to bed the world are bobbing,
Then’s the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
I’ve had a fondness for Leigh Hunt ever since discovering “Jenny Kiss’d Me” 30+ years ago. Though he’s not as well known as his contemporaries Keats and Shelley (who were also his friends), there’s something irrepressible about verses like these. Also, I suppose I connect with his biography of an artist struggling to survive financially. It’s Poe’s story, Coleridge’s, Dostoevsky’s, and so many others. That Hunt was supporting a large family makes me feel the connection only that much more.