On mossy mound where toadstools grow,
They dance in moonlight, row on row,
To music from the purling brook
Where Conwy dreams in secret nook.
Strange moonlight whisperings thru the wood
Where ancient golden beech have stood
And drowsed, thru drifting times of yore,
Steeped deep in mystic myth and lore.
Their bark with lichen garlands hung,
'Neath cobweb skiens with dew-pearls strung,
While knurled and knotted roots surround
To shield, from man, the hallowed ground.
That mist-clad land of whims and spells,
Floating music and tinkling bells;
A door lies hid beyond night's pale,
Wrapped in a glimm'ring, shifting veil.
But if that spell-bound caul you'll pierce,
Then drink the mead from faerie tierce;
The shade will fall away, and lo,
Into the elven realm you'll go!
Where pwca, sylph and woodland sprite
Trip light and skip in pure delight,
While imp and hob kick up their heels
And spin and whirl thru faerie reels.
A faerie woodwind's eerie lilt,
From fife that's hewn of wood and gilt,
With pulsing throb of faerie drums,
Through the glen at midnight comes.
Leila Sen (C)Click to email