The Elfin Artist
In a glade of an elfin forest
When Sussex was Eden-new,
I came on an elvish painter
And watched as his picture grew,
A harebell nodded beside him.
He dipt his brush in the dew.
And it might be the wild thyme round him
That shone in the dark strange ring;
But his brushes were bees’ antennae,
His knife was a wasp’s blue sting;
And his gorgeous exquisite palette
Was a butterfly’s fan-shaped wing.
And he mingled its powdery colours,
And painted the lights that pass,
On a delicate cobweb canvas
That gleamed like a magic glass,
And bloomed like a banner of elf-land,
Between two stalks of grass;
Till it shone like an angel’s feather
With sky-born opal and rose,
And gold from the foot of the rainbow,
And colours that no man knows;
And I laughed in the sweet May weather,
Because of the themes he chose.
For he painted the things that matter,
The tints that we all pass by,
Like the little blue wreaths of incense
That the wild thyme breathes to the sky;
Or the first white bud of the hawthorn,
And the light in a blackbird’s eye;
And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks
That carolling skylarks throw,–
Dark dots on the slumbering splendours
That under the wild wings flow,
Wee shadows like violets trembling
On the unseen breasts of snow;
With petals too lovely for colour
That shake to the rapturous wings,
And grow as the bird draws near them,
And die as he mounts and sings,–
Ah, only those exquisite brushes
Could paint these marvellous things.
By Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)The Fairy Minister
People of Peace! a peaceful man,
Well worthy of your love was he,
Who, while the roaring Garry ran
Red with the life-blood of Dundee,
While coats were turning, crowns were falling,
Wandered along his valley still,
And heard your mystic voices calling
From fairy knowe and haunted hill.
He heard, he saw, he knew too well
The secrets of your fairy clan;
You stole him from the haunted dell,
Who never more was seen of man.
Now far from heaven, and safe from hell,
Unknown of earth, he wanders free.
Would that he might return and tell
Of his mysterious Company!
For we have tired the Folk of Peace;
No more they tax our corn and oil;
Their dances on the moorland cease,
The Brownie stints his wonted toil.
No more shall any shepherd meet
The ladies of the fairy clan,
Nor are their deathly kisses sweet
On lips of any earthly man.
And half I envy him who now,
Clothed in her Court’s enchanted green,
By moonlit loch or mountain’s brow
Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen.
Andrew Lang (1844 – 1912)
Inspired by Robert Kirk, author of The Secret Commonwealth of Elves Fauns and Fairies.
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)The Wee Little Hobgoblin
One wee little Hobgoblin all dressed in red,
Was spying on a farmhouse with mischief in this head.
“This place” said the little Hobgoblin,
“It could be lots of fun. Everything’s so clean and tidy,
and begging to be undone.”
So the wee little Hobgoblin he went to work with glee,
He let the cattle out the gate and set the piglets free,
He spilled some milk in the kitchen. And overturned the butterchurn.
He yanked the laundry off the line and caused the soup to burn.
He pinched the baby and scared the cat and had the mostest fun.
And when his spree was over he said “That’s a job well done!”
By Mark Shapiro
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)The March of the Faerie Host
In well planned battle array,
Ahead of their fair Chieftain,
They march wielding blue spears,
White, curly headed bands.
They scatter the armies of the foe,
They ravage every land,
Splendidly they march into battle,
Impetuous, glamourous, avenging host!
No wonder their strength be great:
Sons of Kings and Queens are one and all.
On all their heads are set
Beautiful manes of yellow-gold.
Their bodies comely, smooth,
Their eyes bright, blue-starred,
Pure crystal their teeth,
Thin their red lips.
Good they are at man-slaying.
Irish, 15th Century
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)Oh, What Is That In The Hollow?
Oh what is that in the Hollow?
Oh my, It looks like a Fellow!
There is moss on his teeth,
And vines underneath,
And his skin is a terrible yellow.
By the twilight the forest is scary!
So we followed the track from the dairy.
Then we saw him below,
by the pale moon’s glow,
He was maybe done in by a Faerie?
(A slightly irreverent poem written by Doktor A, inspired by my favourite ever painting, Oh What is That in the Hollow by Edward Robert Hughes…)
Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)
