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 girdle 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.
Rose FylemanFiled under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)
The gnarled boughs hand darkling down,
And biers sweep my knees;
The moon is low, like a gold lamp,
Behind the twisted trees.
O dark and still are the wet fern
And trees where no birds nest;
What heed have I for night or day
Who ride a livelong quest?
There is no cockcrow in the dark,
No bleat from a far fold,
When the Forest Folk begin to stir
Under the starlight cold.
Rend your wild hair, you elfin things,
That peep from bush and tree;
I know what strangling arms you reach
Athwart the dusk to me.
Twist your fierce lips, you false fair things,
I know what dance you tread
To what drear tune ‘neath the cold moon
O’ nights wi’ the sheeted dead.
Cicely Fox Smith, 1904Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (1)
I dwell in the forest
Amidst the oak, birch and ash
Branches and roots intertwine at the hollow of a tree
Where a nuthatch drinks from a shallow pool of water
Beyond the enclosure of trees are open fields
Where wildflowers, primroses and dandelions grow
A swift fox emerges from the tall grass
Its gaze transfixed on a juvenile rabbit
Two tawny owls swoop close to the ground
Keen eyes watching for movement in the rushes
And a flock of rooks startle the tranquil sky
Ebon silhouettes against the hues of sunset
My sanctuary is a treasure trove
Furnished with feathers, acorns and a carpet of moss
A cloak of leaves keeps me warm at eventide
When I embrace my faerie disguise
Please visit The Wild Swans for more or Natalee’s beautiful art, nature photography, stories and poems.Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comments (3)
Sentinels standing, monoliths at dusk,
In fields turned to plough,
Where once was forest dark.
Ships and man, now mostly gone,
The oft heard call of bird in song.
Peace abounds the tree this night,
As now perceived by human sight.
Yet beyond the other side of here,
A faerie realm is drawn so near!
To be viewed with wonder through faerie gaze,
Lies a forest filled, an Oakland glade.
Here resides “Diana of Fay”,
Her reality unscathed by human ways.
Within the solitary oak we see,
Diana dwells, at one, at peace.
Drawing on strength from roots deep in ground,
An expression of courage so rarely found.
Her countenance is that of a summer’s day,
Her heart, eager as a spring filled May.
Wings are of Autumn burnished gold,
Her complexion of a frost kissed, winter rose.
Should you chance upon so beautiful a Fay,
Whilst out in fields, wandering some day,
Know in your heart the vision laid forth,
Is naught but a glimpse, a faerie’s thought.
Poem and image courtesy Enchanted. Please visit their site for beautiful bronze faery statuary and ornaments.Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)
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 to go orchard robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
They call her Tatty Hex
I heard them call her fae
She’s the one who flies at night
To drive the ghosts away
I see her on her walkabouts
Gathering flowers by the pond
To braid them in her long black hair
And bind them to her wand
Tatty Hex is a Wild Woman
They say she conjures storms
Takes her wand of hawthorn wood
To take on many forms
I only ever heard her once
Speak words of anger to a man
He lives at the edge of her garden now,
In a plastic watering can
Woe betide he who angers Tatty
She can make you forget your home
One flick of her hawthorn wand, you see,
To become a garden gnome
She used to burn sandalwood
To keep out goblins and ghouls
Now she plants rosemary
To keep away lovesick fools
Tatty Hex is a Wild Woman
She dances under the moon
She built a pool in her back garden
Her own midnight blue lagoon
They often say that Tatty Hex
Was born of faerie blood
They say she talks to trees and flowers
Makes oceans sing and flood
Tatty Hex, the Wild Woman,
Who braids flowers in her hair
Walks lightly over sand dunes
And casts magic in the air.
Kate Summers © 2010
Kate Summers’ enchanting poetry can now be found in e-book form. Secrets of the Faerie Realm is available to download from Amazon.Filed under Poetry & Prose | Comment (1)
Cunning little fairy
Where the breezes blow
Rocking in a buttercup
Lightly to and fro
Little folks for nothing
Look not so demure
You are planning mischief
I am very sure!
Soon you will be dancing
Down beside the spring;
On the velvet meadow,
In a fairy ring;
Spoiling were the ewes feed
All the tender grass
Making charmed circles
Mortals dare not pass
Darkening light where lovers
Modest sit apart;
You will kiss the maiden
With your wicked art
Make her think her wooer
Woefully to blame
Through her frowns and blushes
Crying out “For shame!”
Ah! My little fairy
With your mystic charms
You have slipped the infant
From it’s mothers arms;
And have left a changeling,
In its place at night
While you turned the mortal,
To a tricksy sprite.
Thus you mix folks up so
Wicked, willful elf
Never one of us can know
If he be himself
And sitting here and telling
Of the tricks you do
I wonder whether I am I
Or whether I am you!
Alice and Phoebe CaryFiled under Poetry & Prose | Comment (1)
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)
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)
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 ShapiroFiled under Poetry & Prose | Comment (0)