Fragment. "It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moon"

It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moon
  Was at her full, and shone upon the fields
  Where we had toiled the livelong day, to pile
  In golden sheaves the earth's abundant treasure.
  The harvest task had given place to song
  And merry dance; and these in turn were chased
  By legends strange, and wild, unearthly tales,
  Of elves, and gnomes, and fairy sprites, that haunt
  The woods and caves; where they do sleep all day,
  And then come forth i' the witching hour of night,
  To dance by moonlight on the green thick sward.
  The speaker was an aged villager,
  In whom his oft-told tale awoke no fears,
  Such as he filled his gaping listeners with.
  Nor ever was there break in his discourse;
  Save when with gray eyes lifted to the moon,
  He conjured from the past strange instances
  Of kidnapped infants, from their cradles snatched,
  And changed for elfish sprites; of blights, and blains,
  Sent on the cattle by the vengeful fairies;
  Of blasted crops, maimed limbs, and unsound minds,
  All plagues inflicted by these angered sprites.
  Then would he pause, and wash his story down
  With long-drawn draughts of amber ale; while all
  The rest came crowding under the wide oak-tree;
  Piling the corn-sheaves closer round the ring,
  Whispering and shaking, laughing too, with fear;
  And ever, if an acorn bobbed from the boughs
  Or grasshopper from out the stubble chirrupped,
  Blessing themselves from Robin Goodfellow!