I know a little Druid wood Where I would slumber if I could And have the murmuring of the stream To mingle with a midnight dream, And have the holy hazel trees To play above me in the breeze, And smell the thorny eglantine; For there the white owls all night long In the scented gloom divine Hear the wild, strange, tuneless song Of faerie voices, thin and high As the bat's unearthly cry, And the measure of their shoon Dancing, dancing, under the moon, Until, amid the pale of dawn The wandering stars begin to swoon. . . . Ah, leave the world and come away! The windy folk are in the glade, And men have seen their revels, laid In secret on some flowery lawn Underneath the beechen covers, Kings of old, I've heard them say, Here have found them faerie lovers That charmed them out of life and kissed Their lips with cold lips unafraid, And such a spell around them made That they have passed beyond the mist And found the Country-under-wave. . . . Kings of old, whom none could save!
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