When May is here, and every morn <br />Is dappled with pied bells, <br />And dewdrops glance along the thorn <br />And wings flash in the dells, <br />I take my pipe and play a tune <br />Of dreams, a whispered melody, <br />For feet that dance beneath the moon <br />In fairy jollity. <br /> <br />And when the pastoral hills are grey <br />And the dim stars are spread, <br />A scamper fills the grass like play <br />Of feet where fairies tread. <br />And many a little whispering thing <br />Is calling the Shee. <br />The dewy bells of evening ring, <br />And all is melody.<br /><br />Francis Ledwidge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ceol-sidhe/
