Is it the flicker of glimmíring wings,
of subtle, insubstantial things,
that makes a Fairy who she is -
a light among the heather?
Or the long held desire that she
be loved as a Fairy ought to be?
Unchanging is her heartís desire,
whatever the turn of weather.
When the dull day of work is done,
and trouble seems to hide the sun,
out shines the Fairy heart she won -
by being herself whatever.