I sat by the wishing well one winter evening with Henry whilst he cried tears that soaked his socks and turned his cheeks the colour of ripe cherries. Henry was a Gnome and although he was always rather melancholy, he was my dearest friend. I found him in the garden tending to the flowerbeds and humming along with the bumble bees. We now sat under the nights blanket as the full moon kept us company and the stars blinked as they felt sleepy; we listened to their soothing whispers. Everything was asleep, even the trees and flowers had gone to the land of dreams for the night; we giggled at them whilst they talked in their sleep. Henry smiled and kissed me on the nose; we then crept over and dropped our wishes into the well and they floated away so silently as if they were newly picked rose petals.

    The Fairies By William Allingham

    Up the airy mountain,
    Down the rushy glen,
    We daren’t go a-hunting
    For fear of little men;
    Wee folk, good folk,
    Trooping all together;
    Green jacket, red cap,
    And white owl’s feather!
    Down along the rocky shore
    Some make their home,
    They live on crispy pancakes
    Of yellow tide-foam;
    Some in the reeds
    Of the black mountain lake,
    With frogs for their watch-dogs,
    All night awake.

    High on the hill-top
    The old King sits;
    He is now so old and gray
    He’s nigh lost his wits.
    With a bridge of white mist
    Columbkill he crosses,
    On his stately journeys
    From Slieveleague to Rosses;
    Or going up with music
    On cold starry nights,
    To sup with the Queen
    Of the gay Northern Lights.

    They stole little Bridget
    For seven years long;
    When she came down again
    Her friends were all gone.
    They took her lightly back,
    Between the night and morrow,
    They thought that she was fast asleep,
    But she was dead with sorrow.
    They have kept her ever since
    Deep within the lake,
    On a bed of flag-leaves,
    Watching till she wake.

    By the craggy hill-side,
    Through the mosses bare,
    They have planted thorn-trees
    For pleasure here and there.
    Is any man so daring
    As dig them up in spite,
    He shall find their sharpest thorns
    In his bed at night.

    Up the airy mountain,
    Down the rushy glen,
    We daren’t go a-hunting
    For fear of little men;
    Wee folk, good folk,
    Trooping all together;
    Green jacket, red cap,
    And white owl’s feather!

The moon comes to the forge - In her creamy-white petticoat - The child stares, stares - The child is staring at her. (Extract from Romance de la Luna by Federico Garcia Lorca)