Puck in pasture

As old as little birds the Fairy babies As old, and wise, and quaint, with tearless eyes Grave with the solemn lore of Fairy splendour, But O, the little human child is tender, And silly soft, and weak, and oft it cries.

The Spinning Spiders tend the Fairy babies, Content to weave them silken cradles hung In lonely moor, or fen, or shadowy heather, But O, the human child is housed from weather In inglenooks, and warm, where songs are sung.

Through dreams of strange dominion, known to Merlin, Or craving for small fingering hands it seems, The Fairy Raiders haunt our cradles, bringing Exquisite pointed faces and soft singing To lure away the child that hears in dreams.

The Fairy Raiders bear away the children, Unseen, to Elfin pasture lands they pass, And deep in nodding daisy nests they place them Where by the low, red, rosy glow you trace them, And rings of singing larks down in the grass.

There they are one with long heart-breaking sunsets In gay, unearthly lands, and radiant dawns, Till good they grow, and great, and have no sorrow-- But O, the mothers’ mortal woe the morrow To find the changeling left, the true child gone!

Oho! The Elves of Ireland They dance so hard at night They dance their very shoes away In splendour and delight. God bless their Elemental souls, You cannot see them for the holes!

The only Elf in Ireland That has a trade at all It is the cobbler Leprecaun Who makes and mends them all The shoes they dance away by night In green and moony demi-light.

He is the first of cobblers And best of craftsmen too. For why?--He works at happy things By gaiety worn through. God send us each a Leprecaun To mend the heart of us at dawn!

He’s caught the secret of the Earth, Sun, wind, and Summer rain To better happy things that pass Or build them up again. They’re few of mortal men that look So far into the Great Green Book.

If you can catch a Leprecaun And steal away his cap You’ll maybe get a Pot o’ Gold In an exchange, but hap The Leprecaun has never told His secret--what’s a Pot o’ Gold?

Tir-n’an-og[1]

O it may be the path that the sea gull takes Will bring us to Tir-n’an-Og to-night, The sorrowful spell of the sea foam makes Their wings so white.

Or it may be the gold and the crimson proud Of to-morrow’s sunset will see us come Where far from the trouble of wind and cloud The soul finds home.

I’ll be holding you close in a quiet place And may be the trouble will cease That came from wanting your beautiful face, Or turn to peace.

The Elfin Angelus

Are all the roads to Elfland closed, Are all the gates locked fast? And is there not some Fairy spot, Or deep, remote, and sylvan grot Left open where they passed? Ah! hark to what the twilight tells On silver bells, on silver bells!

Say all the lovely, lonely spells, Swing free the doors again! Lo! from the open Hills we ride Through moss and moonlight, far and wide No rider rides in vain! We fight the old, victorious wars ’Neath silver stars, ’neath silver stars.

Though earth is weary with its scars, King Arthur, as it seems, Lies done to death in Avalon, Yet living eyes shall look upon The mercy of their dreams. Sure is each hope on vision stayed, Though long delayed, though long delayed.

Those airy shapes toward which man prayed In Nature’s holy name, In shapes as light, as cool, as green As dancing leaves high boughs between, They put him not to shame. Sure help in all high wars men win From Fairy kin, from Fairy kin.

For, lo! the veil between is thin And easy cast aside, And when the call of man is heard The heart of all the Hills is stirred And all the doors swing wide. And man is succoured and reprieved, Though sorely grieved, though sorely grieved.

For no man is by hope deceived Though spells may cast their lure, And though the aspect suffer change To things unearthly sweet, or strange, Or dreadful to endure. Each man shall win, unless he tire, His Heart’s Desire, his Heart’s Desire!

Those things toward which good men aspire Although the world condemn, And though they seem to die, apart, Safe hid in Nature’s holy heart, Grow great to comfort them. So peace from earth be with you still, Men of good will, men of good will.

Girl’s Song

O Angus Og has four love birds That follow him where-so-ever; And two cry out, “I go, I go,” And two cry out, “Come hither.”

They are plumed like the blue-green water, And the four birds call to me, “I go, I go,” and “Come hither.” I’m thinking they call from the sea.

O maybe I’ll go one sunrise Where the breakers curl and comb, And bare my breast to the four love birds And cry, “Come home, Come home.”

Fawn O’mera

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera, Never heard the magic bell Tolling from the belfries airy Of the towered land of Fairy Where the Elfin people dwell?

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera, Seen the Laughing People ride, Gold, and green, and rowan, trooping Like a flock of sea gulls swooping Out to sea, by some roadside?

Little bits of sticks, and snatches Tattered too, of roadside straw; Here and there the dead leaves whirling In the wind; the gray dust pearling Over them was all they saw!

They, the New Born souls, that newly Grow to threescore year and ten, Ancient only in the cradle, Crafty with the porridge ladle, Children still as greedy men.

But the lovely, loving, lilting, Laughing Wise Ones who are Old, Whom a thousand years make tender, And whose kind eyes know the splendour Of the Dawn, saw fairy gold!

Hear them singing, Fawn O’Mera! Girlhood guessed the song before. Now, the candles flare and dwindle, And a burden grows the spindle, And the flax falls to the floor.