When snow lies on the hills,
When frost has spoiled their mossy,
And crystallized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o'er the plain,
And draughts of dew they cannot sip
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
Carousal they maintain
And cheer their little spirits thus
Till green leaves come again.
Or, maybe, in soft garments rolled,
In hollow trees they lie,
And sing, when nestled from the cold,
To while the season by.
There, while they sleep in pleasant trance,
'Neath mossy counterpane,
In dreams they weave some fairy dance,
Till green leaves come again.
When they return there will be mirth
And music in the air,
And fairy rings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain;
No key-hole will be fairy-proof,
When green leaves come again.
Written by: THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY
Image: Faery Shea. Illustration via ‘Mythological’ by Sabin Reinhardt and Richard Merritt. Coloring and photo by Jason Owens.