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Faerie Poems

 

 

Come - gather near to the smoldering fire
The embers, aflame, will console and inspire!
Sit in the glade when the faery muse comes -
Magick is made with the flick of our tongues!
Oh! dance with the Sidhe under silvery moon!
Word woven trance is the light of their boon!
Bear ye the hearts of all mortal men -
Dance with the fey in the boughs of Green Glen!
-Ferrashynn

 

 

 

 

The Fairy Pendant
 


Scene: A circle of Druidic stones


First Fairy:
Afar from our lawn and our levee,
O sister of sorrowful gaze!
Where the roses in scarlet are heavy
And dream of the end of their days,
You move in another dominion
And hang o'er the historied stone:
Unpruned in your beautiful pinion
Who wander and whisper alone.


All:
Come away while the moon's in the woodland,
We'll dance and then feast in a dairy.
Though youngest of all in our good band,
You are wasting away, little fairy.


Second Fairy:
Ah! cruel ones, leave me alone now
While I murmur a little and ponder
The history here in the stone now;
Then away and away I will wander,
And measure the minds of the flowers,
And gaze on the meadow-mice wary,
And number their days and their hours--


All:
You're wasting away, little fairy.
Second Fairy:
O shining ones, lightly with song pass,
Ah! leave me, I pray you and beg.
My mother drew forth from the long grass
A piece of a nightingle's egg,
And cradled me here where are sung,
Of birds even, longings for aery
Wild wisdoms of spirit and tongue.


All:
You're wasting away, little fairy.
First Fairy [turning away]:
Though the tenderest roses were round you,
The soul of this pitiless place
With pitiless magic has bound you--
Ah! woe for the loss of your face,
And the loss of your laugh with its lightness--
Ah! woe for your wings and your head--
Ah! woe for your eyes and their brightness--
Ah! woe for your slippers of red.


All:
Come away while the moon's in the woodland,
We'll dance and then feast in a dairy.
Though youngest of all in our good band,
She's wasting away, little fairy.

 

 

 

Wild Flowers

 

Yellow Kingcup, is it true
That Fairie Kings drink out of you,
Golden Kingcup full of dew?
"My cup is filled," the flower replies,
"For Kings and Queens and butterflies."
Creeping scarlet Pimpernel,
With your closed or opened bell,
   Do you shower and shine foretell?
                                              "Low lying on the dusty grass,
                                                 I am the poor man's weather-glass."
                                               Fiery Golans, you who glow
                                                 Like suns upon the marshes low,
                                                From earth or heaven do you grow?
                                                "A giant dropped us from his car,
                                                 Flakes of the sun's own fire we are."
                                                Daisy, with a yellow breast,
                                                 More beautiful than all the rest,
                                                  'Tis you can say who loves us best.
                                                "I rise and spread beneath your feet,
                                                In silver leaves, my portents sweet."

                                              by William Butler Yeats

 

The Hosting of the Sidhe

 
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling:
Away, come away;
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand--
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling:
Away, come away.

by William Butler Yeats

 

 

 

 

Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard


We, the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.
When to bed the world are bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
Leigh Hunt

 

 

The Queen of Fairies


Come follow, follow me,
You fairy elves that be,
Which circle on the green;
Come follow me , your Queen.
Hand in hand, let's dance a round,
For this place is fairy ground.
When mortals are at rest;
And snoring in their nest;
Unheard and unespied,
Through keyholes we do glide;
Over tables, stools, and shelves
We trip it with our fairy elves.
And if the house be foul,
Or platter, dish, or bowl,
Up stairs we nimbly creep,
And find the wretch asleep:
There we pinch their arms and thighs-
None escapes; nor none espies.
But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,
And surely she is paid:
For we do use before we go,
To drop a tester in her shoe.
Upon a mushroom's head,
Our table do we spread;
A grain of rye, or wheat,
Is manchet. which we eat;
Pearly drops of dew we drink
In acorn cups filled to the brink.
The brains of nightingales
With unctuous dew of snails,
Between two nutshells stewed
Is meat that's easily chewed;
And the beards of little mice
Do make a feast of wondrous price.
On tops of dewy grass,
So nimbly do we pass,
The young and tender stalk
Ne'er bends where do we walk;
Yet in the morning may be seen
Where we, the night before, have been.
The grasshopper, gnat and fly
Serve for our minstrelsy;
Grace said, we dance awhile,
And so the time beguile:
And when the moon doth hider her head,
The glow worm lights us home to bed.

 



 

Snow Queen

 

Where the wild bear clasps the ice
Over the hanging precipice,
Where the glittering icebergs shine
Within the sunset, red as wine,
Where the reindeer lick the snow,
To see what there may be below,
Where the shades are blue and green,
There lives, they say, the great Snow Queen.
Wild her eyes are as the sea
When northern winds blow lustily.
Her queenly robes are white as snow,
But flaming diamonds on them glow,
And many a precious stone.
Of green ice builded is her throne:
Polar bears her watch-dogs are--
Her only lamp, an evening star.

 

 

 

 

 

Stolen Child

 

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries


Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.


Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
        And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
 

 

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.


Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams


Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping
than you can understand.


Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping
than he can understand.


William Butler Yeats

 

 

 

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