"In olde days of the King Artour,
Of which the Bretons speken gret honour,
All was this lond fulfilled of faerie;
The elf-quene, with hire joly compagnie,
Danced ful oft in many a grene mede.
This was the old opinion as I rede;
I speke of many hundred yeres ago;
But now can no man see non elves mo,
For now the grete charitee and prayers
Of limitoures and othere freres,
That serchen every land, and every streme,
As thickke as motes in the sunnebeme,
Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,
Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures,
Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies,
This maketh that ther ben no faeries."

By Chaucer

A Faery Speaks

What I am I must not show -
What I am thou couldst now know -
Something betwixt heaven and hell -
Something that neither stood nor fell -
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good - may work thee ill.
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion
Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living ten times o'er his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the brave!

--Sir Walter Scott

A Lover's Quarrel Among the Fairies

A moonlight moor. Fairies leading a child.

Male Fairies: Do not fear us, earthly maid!
We will lead you hand in hand
By the willows in the glade,
By the gorse on the high land,

By the pasture where the lambs
Shall awake with lonely bleat,
Shivering closer to their dams
From the rustling of our feet.

You will with the banshee chat,
And will find her good at heart,
Sitting on a warm smooth mat
In the green hill's inmost part.

We will bring a crown of gold
Bending humbly every knee,
Now thy great white doll to hold --
Oh, so happy would we be!

Ah it is so very big,
And we are so very small!
So we dance a fairy jig
To the fiddle's rise and fall.

Yonder see the fairy girls
All their jealousy display,
Lift their chins and toss their curls,
Lift their chins and turn away.

See you, brother, Cranberry Fruit --
He! ho! ho! the merry blade! --
Hugs and pets and pats yon newt,
Teasing every wilful maid.

Girl Fairies: Lead they one with foolish care,
Deafening us with idle sound --
One whose breathing shakes the air,
One whose footfall shakes the ground.

Come you, Coltsfoot, Mousetail, come!
Come I know where, far away,
Owls there be whom age makes numb;
Come and tease them till the day.

Puffed like puff-balls on a tree,
Scoff they at the modern earth --
Ah! how large mice used to be
In their days of youthful mirth!

Come, beside a sandy lake,
Feed a fire with stems of grass;
Roasting berries steam and shake --
Talking hours swiftly pass!

Long before the morning fire
Wake the larks upon the green.
Yonder foolish ones will tire
Of their tall, new-fangled queen.

They will lead her home again
To the orchard-circled farm;
At the house of weary men
Raise the door-pin with alarm,

And come kneeling on one knee,
While we shake our heads and scold
This their wanton treachery,
And our slaves be as of old.

By William Butler Yeats

Alms in Autumn

Spindlewood, spindlewood, will you lend me pray,
A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way?
The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen,
And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again.
Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light,
To find the hidden pathways in the darkness of the light.

Ashtree, ashtree, throw me, if you please,
Throw me down a slender bunch of russet-gold keys,
I fear the gates of Fairyland all be shut so fast
That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past.
I'll tie them to my girld and as I go along,
My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.

Hollybush, hollybush, help me in my task,
A pocketfull of berries is all the alms I ask,
A pocketfull of berries to thread on golden strands,
(I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands).
So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright,
They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.

By Rose Fyleman

Believe in the Fairies

Believe in the Fairies
Who make dreams come true.
Believe in the wonder,
The stars and the moon.
Believe in the magic,
From Fairies above.
They dance on the flowers,
And sing songs of love.
And if you just believe,
And always stay true,
The Fairies will be there,
To watch over you!

Author Unknown

Bluebells

Where the bluebells and the wind are,
Fairies in a ring I spied,
And I heard a little linnet
Singing near beside.

Where the primrose and the dew are,
Soon were sped the fairies all:
Only now the green turf freshens,
And the linnets call.

By Walter de la Mare

By the Moon we Sport and Play

By the moon we sport and play,
With the night begins our day,
As we dance the dew doth fall:
Trip it, little urchins all!
Two by two, and three by three,
And about go we, and about go we!

By John Lyly

Cherry Time

Cherries of the night are riper
Than the cherries pluckt at noon
Gather to your fairy piper
When he pipes his magic tune:
Merry, merry,
Take a cherry;
Mine are sounder,
Mine are rounder,
Mine are sweeter
For the eater
Under the moon.
And you’ll be fairies soon.

In the cherry pluckt at night,
With the dew of summer swelling,
There’s a juice of pure delight,
Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling.
Merry, merry,
Take a cherry;
Mine are sounder,
Mine are rounder,
Mine are sweeter
For the eater
In the moonlight.
And you’ll be fairies quite.

When I sound the fairy call,
Gather here in silent meeting,
Chin to knee on the orchard wall,
Cooled with dew and cherries eating.
Merry, merry,
Take a cherry;
Mine are sounder,
Mine are rounder,
Mine are sweeter.
For the eater
When the dews fall.
And you’ll be fairies all.

By Robert Graves

Come away O' human Child....

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

By W.B. Yeats

Down at the Bottom of the Garden

Have you ever thought at night
as you lay down your head,
about the little fairies
down by the garden shed?
For as you slumber sweetly on your
pillow stuffed with feathers, those
little sprites are having fun in
Just about all weathers!
Leap-frogging the toadstools.
Showering in the rain.
Diving in the puddles.
Jacuzzi in the drain!
Flying with the butterflies.
Dancing in a ring.
Catching jars of moon dust.
Flying on a wing.
Floating on the snowflakes.
Skating on the ice.
Sliding down the roof tops.
Riding little mice.
Curling up in flowerpots,
hide and seek they’ll play,
until the sun begins to rise and
dawns the brand new day.
Behold the magic garden,
enchantment seems to fade,
though nature blossoms bountifully
the sprites no longer play, but
when the sun starts sleeping, and the
moon arrives at eve, then
If you watch real carefully,
Like me, you’ll soon believe.

© Ananya
http://flock-of-fairies.com

Faery Song

Oh, where do fairies hide their heads
When snow lies on the hills
When frost has spoil'd their mossy beds
And crystalized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o're the plain,
And drafts of dew they cannot sip
Till green leaves come again
Till green leaves come again.
Perhaps in small blue diving bells
They plunge beneath the waves,
Inhabiting the wreathed shells
That lie in ♦coral caves
Perhaps in red Vesuvius Carousals they maintain
And cheer their little spirits up
Till green leaves come again
Till green leaves come again.
When back they come there'll be glad mirth
And music in the air,
And fairy wings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
will bar the doors in vain,
No keyhole will be fairy proof
When green leaves come again... till green leaves come gain

By Thomas Haynes Bayly

Faery Song

He has conn'd the lesson now;
He has read the book of pain:
There are furrows on his brow;
I must make it smooth again.

Lo! I knock the spurs away;
Lo! I loosen belt and brand;
Hark! I hear the courser neigh
For his stall in Fairy-land.

Bring the cap, and bring the vest;
Buckle on his sandal shoon;
Fetch his memory from the chest
In the treasury of the moon.

I have taught him to be wise
For a little maiden's sake;—
Lo! he opens his glad eyes,
Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake!

By Arthur Quiller-Couch

Faery Song

What I am I must not show,
What I am thou couldst now know,
Something betwixt heaven and hell,
Something that neither stood nor fell,
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good ¯ may work thee ill.
Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion
Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living ten times o'er his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the brave!

By Sir Walter Scott

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 !

By John Keats

Faery Song

(Sung by the people of Faery over Diarmuid and Grania, in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech)

We who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told:

Give to these children, new from the world,
Silence and love;
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,
And the stars above:

Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is anything better, anything better?
Tell us it then:

Us who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told.

--William Butler Yeats

Faery Song

The moonlight fades from flower and tree,
And the stars dim one by one;
The tale is told, the song is sung,
And the Fairy feast is done.
The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,
And sings to them, soft and low.
The early birds erelong will wake:
'T is time for the Elves to go.
O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,
Unseen by mortal eye,
And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float
Through the quiet moonlit sky;--
For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,
And the flowers alone may know,
The feasts we hold, the tales we tell:
So 't is time for the Elves to go.
From bird, and blossom, and bee,
We learn the lessons they teach;
And seek, by kindly deeds, to win
A loving friend in each.
And though unseen on earth we dwell,
Sweet voices whisper low,
And gentle hearts most joyously greet
The Elves where'er they go.
When next me meet in the Fairy dell,
May the silver moon's soft light
Shine then on faces gay as now,
And Elfin hearts as light.
Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky
With sunlight soon will glow.
The morning star shall light us home:
Farewell! for the Elves must go.
As the music ceased, with a soft,
rustling sound the Elves spread their shining wings,
and flew silently over the sleeping earth;
the flowers closed their bright eyes,
the little winds were still, for the feast was over,
and the Fairy lessons ended.

By Louisa May Alcott

Fairies

You can't see fairies unless you're good.
That's what Nurse said to me.
They live in the smoke of the chimney,
Or down in the roots of tree;
They brush their wings on a tulip,
Or hide behind a pea.

But you can't see fairies unless you're good,
So they are'nt much use to me.

By Marchette Gaylord Chute

Fairy Bread

Come up here, O dusty feet!
Here is fairy ready to eat.
Here in my retiring room,
Children ,you may dine
On the golden smell of broom
And the shade of pine;
And when you have eaten well,
Fairy stories hear and tell.

By Robert Louis Stevenson