The Fairy Green

Fairy Music

When the fiddlers play their tunes you may sometimes hear, Very softly chiming in, magically clear, Magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notes Of fairy voices bubbling free from tiny fairy throats.

When the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers, Or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs, Comes an added rush of sound to the silver din-- Songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in.

When athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls, Through the tranquil air there float elfin madrigals And in wild November nights, on the winds astride, Fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride.

Every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake, Every lovely fragile hope--these the fairies take, Delicately fashion them and give them back again In tender, limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men.

The Hayfield

Over the field the fairies went Singing and dancing and well content; Over the field of sweet warm grass I saw their shimmering cohorts pass.

The clover flamed to a ruddier glow, The slender buttercups curtseyed low, The wondering daisies, innocent-eyed, Bowed their heads to the radiant tide.

And flirting butterflies, pearly white, Left the flowers for a new delight, Left their loves for the fairies' sake, And fluttered dizzily in their wake.

Over the swaying grass they swept, Over the hedgerow soared and leapt, Broke and scattered in golden spray, Gleamed and glittered--and melted away.

The Island

I know an island in a lake, Green upon waters grey; It has a strange enchanted air; I hear the fairies singing there When I go by that way.

They guard their hidden dwelling-place With bands of stalwart reeds, But sometimes, by a happy chance, I see them all come out and dance Upon the water-weeds.

One night, one summer night, I know Suddenly I shall wake, And very softly hasten down And out beyond the sleeping town To find my fairy lake.

I shall not need to seek a boat, It will be moored, I think, Within a tiny pebbled bay Where meadow-sweet and mallow sway Close to the water's brink.

The moon from shore to shadowy shore Will make a shining trail, And I shall sing their fairy song As joyfully I float along-- I shall not need a sail.

And peering through a starlit haze I presently shall see, Where swift the waiting reeds unclose, The fairies all in rows and rows Waiting to welcome me.

Smith Square, Westminster

In Smith Square, Westminster, the houses stand so prim, With slender railings at their feet and windows straight and slim; And all day long they staidly stare with gentle placid gaze, And dream of joyous happenings in splendid bygone days.

In Smith Square, Westminster, you must not make a noise, No shrill-voiced vendors harbour there, no shouting errand-boys; But very busy gentlemen step swiftly out and in With little leather cases and umbrellas neatly thin.

Yet sometimes when the summer night her starry curtain spreads, And all the busy gentlemen are sleeping in their beds, You hear a gentle humming like the humming of a hive, And Smith Square, Westminster, begins to come alive.

For all the houses start to sing, honey-sweet and low, The tender little lovely songs of long and long ago, And all the fairies round about come hastening up in crowds, Until the quiet air is filled with rainbow-coloured clouds.

On roof and rail and chimney-pot they delicately perch, They hang like jewelled fringes on the ledges of the church; They dance about the roadway upon nimble, noiseless feet, While the houses keep on chanting with a soft enticing beat.

And still they weave their sparkling webs and still they leap and whirl Until the far horizon's edge is faintly rimmed with pearl, And the morning breeze blows out the stars discreetly, one by one, And the sentries on the Abbey signal down--"The Sun--the Sun!"

And long before the butlers stumble drowsily downstairs, And long before their masters have begun to say their prayers, The fairies all have pranced away upon the morning beams, And Smith Square, Westminster, is wrapped once more in dreams.

She does not hear their laughter, she does not feel the sun, She cannot leave the shadowed wood until the spell is done.

The Goblin to the Fairy Queen

What do you lack, queen, queen, That is precious and fine and rare? A jewelled snood that shall lie between The delicate waves of your hair? I will ride through the sky on the evening wind With a golden needle and thread, And string up the tiniest stars I can find, To glitter about your head.

What can I do, queen, queen, To hasten the hours along When you grow weary of woodland green, Weary of woodland song? A cage of gossamer gold I will tie On to a skylark's wing, And there you shall hang in the midst of the sky And tremble to hear him sing.

Grant me a boon, queen, queen; This is the boon that I ask-- Let me do service, mighty or mean, Give me a task, a task. Are there no jackanapes giants to slay? Are there no dragons to fight? Nothing shall daunt me by dark or by day; Make me your goblin knight!

The Fairy Queen to the Goblin

Last night I heard a singing--a singing in my dreams, It wandered through my land of sleep like little silver streams; Like little purling silver streams that gently laugh and coo-- Goblin with the shining eyes, goblin, was it you?

Softer than the tender croon of my happy doves, Sweeter than my nightingales pouring forth their loves, Clearer than my valiant lark triumphant in the blue; Goblin with the whimsic smile, goblin, was it you?

All night long the singer stayed close beside my bower, Weaving his enchanted songs, till that magic hour When the early morning light creeps across the dew; Goblin with the steadfast heart, goblin, was it you?

Fairies in Autumn

You perch upon the leaves where the trees are very high, And you all shout together as the wind goes by; The merry mad wind sets the leaves all afloat, And off you go a-sailing in an airy wee boat.

You fly to the edges of a grim grey cloud, And you all start a-dancing and a-singing very loud; The cloud melts away in a shower of peevish rain And you slide down from heaven on a slim silver chain.

Trees and Fairies

The larch-tree gives them needles To stitch their gossamer things; Carefully, cunningly toils the oak To shape the cups of the fairy folk; The sycamore gives them wings.

The lordly fir-tree rocks them High on his swinging sails; The hawthorn fashions their tiny spears; The whispering alder charms their ears With soft, mysterious tales.

The chestnut gives them candles To make their ballroom fine; And the elder-bush and the hazel tree Assist their delicate revelry With nuts and fragrant wine.

Fairies in the Malverns

As I walked over Hollybush Hill The sun was low and the winds were still, And never a whispering branch I heard Nor ever the tiniest call of a bird.

And when I came to the topmost height Oh, but I saw such a wonderful sight: All about on the hill-crest there The fairies danced in the golden air.

Danced and frolicked with never a sound In and out in a magical round; Wide and wider the circle grew Then suddenly melted into the blue.

As I walked down into Eastnor Vale The stars already were twinkling pale, And over the spaces of dew-white grass I saw a marvellous pageant pass.