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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree


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The dying fairy

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I found the fairy lying on the ground;
she did not seem to wish to rise again.
Her hands were locked in prayer, as if in strain,
and like a shroud, dead leaves were all around.
I looked, and saw the fields lay brown in sleep,
awaiting the instruction of her tongue
to make the winter waters ever-young,
and cause the flowers to wake from slumbers deep.
”If you should not arise again,” I said,
”believing all your hopes to be forlorn,
the world of men will die without their corn,
and death will bring the winter in your stead.
Arise, and use your wings with all your might;
arise, and fly, or soon will come the night!”

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