When the fiddlers play the tunes you may sometimes hear,
Very softly, chiming in, magically clear,
Magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notes
Of fairy voices bubbling from tiny fairy throats.
When the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers,
Or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs,
Comes an added rush of sound to the silver din—
Songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in.
When athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls,
Through the tranquil air they float elfin madrigals,
And in wild November nights, on the winds astride,
Fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride.
Every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake,
Every lovely fragile hope—these the fairies take,
Delicately fashion them and give them back again
In tender, limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men.
Rose Fyleman (1877-1957)