Conversations with a Man on a Toadstool

As I awoke from slumber sleep
And walked within the forest deep
Listening to the tread and creep
Of Eve’s kind folk afoot,

I spied upon a toadstool sat
A tiny man beneath a hat
Twidd’ling his beard, this way and that;
And mutt’ring as he put
 
A tiny pipe a’tween his teeth
And puffed about his hat a wreath
Of smoke the hue of new dried heath
Though tinged a bit with soot.

He cocked a hand a’neath his chin
And puffed upon his pipe again,
And glanced around a bit and then
So thus he spake to me:

“Afore your blund’ring feet ere fell
“Upoon the hill, the mount, or dell
“We’d been and gawn, but nuwn culd tell
“They sarched, but culd’na see.

“Fer as we fownd, so as we lewft,
“though ar’ fangers were noo less dewft,
“It ware nowt we, who wud berewft
“The ‘arth of ‘er beauty.”

And thus he spake and turned away
Without a further word to say
My response, it was waved to nay,
His egress was so fleet.

I sat upon a new felled tree
And thought of what he’d said to me,
Though truth it was and truth it be,
The taste was far from sweet.

The Night around, it turned to day
And I knew well I could not stay
So I arose, to be away,
And ground the toadstool ‘neath my feet.