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Elve's Dance"
anon. Round
about, round about,
In a fair ring-a,
Thus we dance, thus we dance,
And thus we sing-a,
Trip and go, to and fro
Over this green-a,
All
about, in and out,
For our brave Queen-a. 
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| I'd
Love to be a Fairy's Child Children
born of fairy stock
Never need for shirt or frock,
Never want for food
or fire,
Always get their heart's desire:
Jingle pockets full of gold,
Marry when they're seven years old.
Every fairy child may keep
Two strong ponies and ten sheep;
All have houses, each his own,
Built
of brick, or granite stone;
They live on cherries, they run wild--
I'd
love to be a Fairy's child. Robert
Graves
"Fairies and Fusiliers" (1918)
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 | Invocation
to the fairies Fays and fairies
haste away!
This is Harriet's holiday:
Bring the lyre, and bring the lute,
Bring the sweetly-breathing flute;
Wreaths of cowslips hither bring,
All
the honours of the spring;
Adorn the grot with all that's gai,
Fays and
fairies haste away
Bring the vine to Bacchus dear,
Bring the purple lilac
here,
Festoons of roses, sweetest flower,
The yellow primrose of the bower,
Blue-ey'd violets wet with dew,
Bring the clustering woodbine too
Bring
the baskets made of rush,
The cherry with it's ripen'd blush,
The downy
peach, so soft so fair,
The luscious grap, the mellow pear:
These to Harriet
hither bring,
And sweetly in return she'll sing
Be the brilliant grotto
scene
The palace of the Fairy Queen
Form the sprightly circling dance,
Fairies here your steps advance;
To harp's soft dulcet sound
Let your
footsteps lightly bound
Unveil your forms to mortal eye;
Let Harriet view
your revelry ~F.D. Browne-Hemans~
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Faery Song Ah ! Woe is me ! poor
silver-wing !
That I must chant they lady's dirge,
And death to this fair
haunt of spring,
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge --
Poor silver-wing
! ah ! woe is me !
That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's
pall !
Go, pretty page ! and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near
!
Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm Favonian burial !
Go, pretty
page ! and softly tell --
The blossoms hang by a melting spell,
And fall
they must, ere a star wink thrice
Upon her closed eyes,
That now in vain
are weeping in their last tears,
At sweet life leaving, and these arbors green
--
Rich dowry from the spirit of the spheres
alas ! poor queen ! John
Keats
| Green
Rain
by Mary Webb Into
the scented woods we'll go,
And see the blackthorn swim in snow.
High
above, in the budding leaves,
A brooding dove awakes and grieves;
The
glades with mingled music stir,
And wildly laughs the woodpecker.
When
blackthorn petals pearl the breeze,
There are the twisted hawthorne trees
Thick-set with buds, as clear and pale
As golden water or green hail--
As if a storm of rain had stood
Enchanted in the thorny wood,
And, hearing
fairy voices call,
Hung poised, forgetting how to fall.
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| La Belle
Dame
sans Merci
by John Keats
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And
no birds sing. Oh
what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's
granary is full,
And the harvest's done I
see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks
a fading rose
Fast withereth too. I
met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was
long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan. I
set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong
would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And
honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I
love the true'. She
took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And
there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side. I
saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the
cold hill's side. And
this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge
is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
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| | The
Stolen Child
by W. B. Yeats 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.
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