Synopsis: The island where the elves live. And if you go there and speak a word, you would be captive of the King of the Elves for 7 years and a day. (Copyright expired)

On this silver inlet's breast, Lies an isle in glamour drest. All its trees are small but old, Threescore winters each has told, And the patriarch of the clan Is no taller than a man ! Yet these little weazened trees That are dropping on their knees Down before the bluff north breeze Are gigantic yew and oak To the island's pigmy folk. They are full of craft and guile, Who inhabit Todlin Isle. Oftentimes, with quaint farewells, They launch out in scallop-shells, On some mighty voyage bound To the mainland meadow-ground. If you're like to cross their track, Straight about they veer and tack, Sheltering in those tangled coves Where they hide their treasure-troves ; If you land, they quickly flit Into secret cave and pit ; So that never yet, I ween, Any of their ilk was seen. But their bond-slaves you may pass, Weaving through the warm, dry grass (Limber "hopper," coal-black grig, Lady-bug, and emmet trig) ; And their beds you come across, Strewn with tressed green-gray moss ; -- Pillows made of silk-weed floss -- Coverlids of rose-leaf lawn -- Sweet-fern curtains, partly drawn. You may find their banquet-rooms Hung with white azalea blooms, And the dainties left in haste, If you wish, yourself may taste ; -- Goblets filled with dewberry wine, Purple beach-plums, sleek and fine, Honey that was had in fee From the solitary bee, Smilax salads cool and crisp ; -- You may taste -- but no word lisp, Else for seven years and a day You on Todlin Isle must stay. For of fern-seed you will eat, -- Be unseen, from head to feet, -- Be unheard, howe'er you moan, Till your captive years are flown, Drag about a gossamer chain, Serve the King of Elves, in pain. Ah, my child, be wise and dumb, When to Todlin Isle you come !