No goblin, dwarf or even elf
Has knowledge of an ancient trade
That tiny spirits of the wealth
Endow upon a moment’s jade.

They polish crystals like a pixy,
And whisper old arcanum louder,
To make the globes of witches gipsy
And genie lamps of sprinkle-powder.

The lightest feather weighs a ton
To midget spirits of the atom
Who wield a power known to none,
That not a soul can ever fathom.