Wake.

THE FAIRY RINGS

Here on the greensward, ’mid the old mole-hills,

   Where ploughshares never come to hurt the things

Antiquity hath charge of,—Fear instils

   Her footsteps, and the ancient fairy rings

Shine black, and fresh, and round—the gipsy’s fire,

   Left yesternight, scarce leaves more proof behind

Of midnight sports, when they from day retire,

   Than in these rings my fancy seems to find

Of fairy revels; and I stoop to see

   Their little footmarks in each circling stain,

And think I hear them, in their summer glee,

   Wishing for night, that they may dance again;

Till shepherds’ tales, told ’neath the leaning tree

While shunning showers, seem Bible-truths to me­—

 Aye, almost Scripture-truths!—My poorer mind

   Grows into worship of these mysteries,

While Fancy doth her ancient scrolls unbind

   That Time hath hid in countless centuries;

And when the morning’s mist doth leave behind

   The fungus round, and mushroom white as snow,

They strike me, to romantic moods inclined,

   As shadows of things modeled long ago:

Halls, palaces, and marble columned domes,

And modem shades of fairies’ ancient homes,

   Erected in these rings and pastures still,

For midnight balls and revelry; and then

   Left like the ruins of all ancient skill,

To wake the wonder of mere common men. 

John Clare