If on a summer's night a wreath of light glittered on the grass of a meadow, wise mortals drew away.  The light was a fairy ring of elfin dancers, and the man or maid who stepped within its glow would be imprisoned  in their world.

Faeries often dance in circles in the grass which are called faerie rings and this spells danger for the human passerby.  The wild enchantment of the faerie music can lead him inexplorably towards the ring which can lead to captivity for ever in the land of Faerie.  If a human steps into the ring he is compelled to join the faeries in their wild prancing.  The dance might seem to last only minutes, or an hour or two, or even at most a whole night but in fact the normal duration would be seven years our time and sometimes longer.  The unfortunate captive could be rescued by a friend who, with others holding his coat-tails, follows the faerie music, reaches into the ring (keeping one foot firmly outside) and pulls the dancer out.
The different time span in Faerie most certainly inspired many tales in popular liturature, the best known of which is probably that of Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving

Searching for landmarks in the meadow, Llewellyn discovered among the blackberry bushes a flattened patch of grass..  Gingerly he placed one foot on the spot, and at once he found himself on the fringe of a brilliant whirl of fairies, dancing in a cocoon of light.  In the center of the ring was Rhys, loose-jointed as a scarecrow, twitching and flailing to the frenzied beat.  Keeping one foot planted firmly outside the circle, Llewellyn snagged  Rhy's coattails and hauled him from the revels.  His village companion was astonished; All he had seen was Llewellyn's curious stance; Rhys seemed to have been pulled out of the air.

Rhys, who believed he had danced no longer than five minutes, and who heartily resented the interruption, could not resume his old life.  He quarreled with friends.  He did not work in the fileds but wandered alone on the wind-swept uplands, thirsting for the wild music and hearing only the moan of the wind. Weeks passed this way.  Rhys grew gaunt and listless, and one day his solitary figure was no longer seen ranging the hills.  At last, a hunter found him dead.
 
 

A special thanks again to John Cyr for letting me use his beautiful poetry on my pages - please check out his site for more wonderful poems, he is very talented!