Oft have I awoken in the fresh morning air
When the sun has weaved
Her rays of gold
And opened the mist frozen petals with little pools
For sweet bees to bathe in.
Then have my eyes seen
Littlest of the little footprints appear,
As if from the melting mist –
Little tiny impressions, so magical
Beneath my window
That greets the wide, wide world.
I have lain long and late
Oblivious to the creatures
That have caused them to be there.
But at times, when the icy winter wind
Has lashed out steely currents on my face,
I have heard them whisper –
Sweet, soft, magical whispers –
That have ridden on the cold night air
And carried themselves to me,
In vain my eyes have searched them
Beneath mulberry and rose,
Or some hidden path to fairy folk,
A path to fairyland.
In vain have I searched and asked young eyes
Questions fancied from the thoughts of silken footprints.
And all eyes, yes all
Have laughed vaguely, sneeringly
Some even sad and caught in a haze –
Eyes that have told the sad tale
Of a fairyland that exists no more.
And yet have I seen them lie lifeless –
Tinkling, shimmering, almost fading into the moonlight,
That have melted from the mist,
Enclosed in the Sun’s first golden threads,
Fall softly – ever so silently –
There, right where the window opens,
Letting in the wind from beneath the mulberry
And the breeze that lies nestled in oblivion
Beneath the wild, wild, rose.