Stifled with sweets

Was I not served in open day
With buds and flowers! — and whence came they?
In the still night, as poets tell,
Queen Mab rings out her little bell,
And sends her sylphs on moonlight beams,
To weave our happy, youthful dreams,
(—Ere morning crimsons for the day
That comes to chase them all away —)
To whisper in the slumberer's ear,
Thoughts full of young and buoyant cheer;
To put such nectar to the lip
As waking mortals never sip —
To place a rosebud on each eye,
To purify the sleeper's sigh,
And best of all, beside his couch
Leave on his cheek a Fairy's touch.
But who, in honest open day,
Sends buds and flowers — and whence come they?