In the smoke-wraiths blown by a Summer wind,
In the bubbles upon a stream,
In the scent of a rose that was born in June,
In the memory of a dream,
In the joy that sings to a minor key,
In the youth that is young eternally
Lie the silver spell and the golden charm
Of the World of Faërie.

When the sense of a life once lived returns,
When the wind is full of the Spring,
When a freedom nothing can chain awakes
Then I know that the faëries sing;
And they sing a song that would lead us forth,
Ah! it's never to East nor West nor North
But across the evening and through the dusk
To the land of Faërie.

Their spell has a magic that words would break,
But never the song of a bird
In the splash of a stream that runs through a wood
In the soughing trees it is heard.
With a rustle amid the ferny brake,
With the faintest ripple over the lake,
With the sense of a presence near at hand
Come the lords of Faërie.

Men say that the faëries are bravely clad,
But they come not in mortal guise.
No voice has echoed the words they speak
For they talk not in human wise.
In the sudden patter of summer rain,
In a wind that awakes to die again,
In the murmur of birds through summer dawns
Is the speech of Faërie.