Fairy Poems

Popular Fairy Poems
Village Song
by Sarojini Naidu

HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?
Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going,
Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing;
To the köil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies glisten,
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!
Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure,
Of bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal-scented leisure.

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Paper Boats
by Rabindranath Tagore

Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running
stream.
In bid black letters I write my name on them and the name of
the village where I live.
I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and
know who I am.
I load my little boats with shiuli flower from our garden, and
hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land
in the night.
I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the

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Skunk Hour
by Robert Lowell

(for Elizabeth Bishop)

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer is first selectman in our village;
she's in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchic privacy

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A Lover's Quarrel Among The Fairies
by William Butler Yeats

A moonlight moor. Fairies leading a child.

Male Fairies: Do not fear us, earthly maid!
We will lead you hand in hand
By the willows in the glade,
By the gorse on the high land,

By the pasture where the lambs
Shall awake with lonely bleat,
Shivering closer to their dams

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Spenser's Ireland
by Marianne Moore

has not altered; -
a place as kind as it is green,
the greenest place I've never seen.
Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect
the culprit; nor blows, but it
is torture to him to not be spoken to.
They're natural,-
the coat, like Venus'
mantle lined with stars,

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Recent Fairy Poems
Divine Red Overdose
by Jayesh Goyal

The scent of desires and splashes of passion, a mix of effervescence with flames of fire, she glows like the silver rays of the moon
With wet lips as pen and her femininity as canvas, I seem helpless to describe the lady draped in a red saree
Adorned with delicate silver filigree earrings and the fine necklace swinging slowly, kissing her neck, arousing bubbles of jealousy in me
Eyes, beautiful as interstellar explosions, the left full of passionate wants and the other shy of my furtive gaze
Her stifling eyes speak of impetuous thoughts, combine as one, passions and lust
I hear my name unspoken in her warm untiring gaze - her mounds of pleasure inviting the baby in me to satiate his hunger
Her aromatic oxters were the wild storm in the forest of dreams, as she hypnotized me with her careless lips
Pressing kisses taste of our heaving needs, awakening wild passion within me
Her savage neckline took my breath away, the graceful claws pulled my sinful thoughts into her femininity - the delicious sparks tempting my startled masculinity
Like a teenaged butterfly she danced freely - gliding effortlessly beneath the sinful sheets like a mystical serpent

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Snow Song
by Sara Teasdale

Fairy snow, fairy snow,
Blowing, blowing everywhere,
Would that I
Too, could fly
Lightly, lightly through the air.

Like a wee, crystal star
I should drift, I should blow
Near, more near,
To my dear

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A Golden Day
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown away,
And every breeze sings, "all is well."
I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?"
My heart replies, "I do not know."

Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,
Today is joy undimmed, complete;
In tears or pain we have no part;

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The Old Wooden Cradle
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle
The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside.
No more to its motion o’er sleep’s fairy ocean,
Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide.

No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker,
Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed;
No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging –
The child of this era is put into bed.


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The Wild Blue-Bells
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Came a bouquet from the city,
Fragrant, rich and debonair -
Sweet carnation and geraniium,
Heliotrope and roses rare.

Down beside the crystal river,
Where the moss-grown rocks are high,
And the ferns, from niche and crevice,
Stretch to greet the azure sky;


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