"Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
Made by the carpenter squirrel and the grub,
For ages past the fairies' coach-makers;
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs,
Her reins of the smallest spider web,
Her collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of thread,
Her waggoner is a small grey-coated gnat;
And in this state she gallops night by night,
Through lovers' braines - and then they dream of love."