A Fairy To Puck

Puck

He is a mischievous, shape-shifting Hobgoblin,
made famous by Shakespeare.
He is also associated with the Pwca and the Phooka.

Dance within the moonlight
I wait for your return
Heart is filled with ecstasy
The music sad nocturne

Waiting for your souls return
Want to see your face
Reaching out to guide you here
Our spirits will embrace

Come with me and hold me close
Dance among the stars
Twirl with me in pirouettes
My hopes of love memoirs

Patiently I wait for you
This heart is filled with woe
Always want to follow you
Wherever wings may go

Caught a moonbeam's special glow
Waiting on this flight
Come to me on sparkling star
Fill my soul this night

See you from a distance now
A very special light
Fills my heart with so much peace
Come dance with me tonight.

~Francine Pucillo~
©used with permission
Read more of her poetry here:
POETRY~EMOTION

A Fairy to Puck
From Shakespeare's
"A Midsummer Night's Dream"

Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through brier,
Over park, over pale,
Through flood, through fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:
Our queen and all our elves come here anon.
(I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.)

O then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . .
She is the fairie's midwife; and she comes,
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies,
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep.

Chaucer

"In olde days of the King Artour,
Of which the Bretons speken gret honour,
All was this lond fulfilled of faerie;
The elf-quene, with hire joly compagnie,
Danced ful oft in many a grene mede.
This was the old opinion as I rede;
I speke of many hundred yeres ago;
But now can no man see non elves mo,
For now the grete charitee and prayers
Of limitoures and othere freres,
That serchen every land, and every streme,
As thickke as motes in the sunnebeme,
Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,
Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures,
Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies,
This maketh that ther ben no faeries."

Mor of Cloyne
by Alfred Perceval Graves

Mor of Cloyne, a Munster Princess,
is singing at the door of a Fairy rath to her sister,
a captive within it, the magic tune by which she
once escaped from a like captivity.

Little Sister, whom the Fay
Hides away within his doon,
Deep below yon seeding fern,
Oh, list and learn my magic tune.

Long ago, when snared like thee
By the shee, my harp and I
O'er them wove the slumber spell,
Warbling well its lullaby.

Till with dreamy smiles they sank,
Rank on rank, before the strain;
And I rose from out the rath,
And found my path to earth again.

Little Sister, to my woe
Hid below among the Shee,
List and learn the magic tune,
That it full soon may succour thee.

Fairy Frilly

Fairy Frilly for half an hour
Went to sleep in a poppy flower-
Went to sleep in her little green frock,
And the time of the ball was ten o' clock.
Quarter to ten and five to ten
Ticked from the dandelion clock again,
But Fairy Frilly was deaf to all,
And ten was the time of the fairy ball!
Little West Wind came by that way,
And he pulled off the petal where Frilly lay,
Pulled it off with the fairy on it,
And blew with a great big breath upon it.
Of sailed the petal, Frilly and all-
And thats how she managed to get to the ball

~Florence Hoaston~

Overheard on a Saltmarsh

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
Green glass, globin. Why do you stare at them?
Give them me.

No.

Give them me. Give them me.

No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Golbin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I desire them.

No.

I will howl in a deep lagoon
For you green glass beads,I love them so.
Give them me.Give them.
No.

~Harold Monro~