Where are the wonderful elves, and the fairy creatures bright?
Where are the tiny things that danced in the pale moonlight?
Danced in a magic ring, and fluttered in robes of white,
Like motes in the sunbeam whirled, like leaves in the forest hoar.
Hark to the sound of the sea, and the cry of the waves on the shore.
Where are the dusky gnomes who toiled in the golden ground?
So that the miners trembled hearing their hammers’ sound,
Hearing them tapping, tapping, delving in darkness bound,
A thousand tapping hammers, beneath them hammering.
Hark to the muttered thunder, the voice of the hidden spring.
Where are the forest fairies, the elves in Lincoln green,
Deep in the forest hidden, and never in cities seen,
Sought for by timid maidens, on sainted Hallowe’en,
The joy of all true lovers, a merry band were they!
Hark to the hum of the bee, in the scented blooms of May.
Where are the household fairies, who loved the embers’ glow,
Who played at games with the shadows flickering to and fro,
But left no track on the sanded floor, no trace on the fallen snow,
And filled up the little slippers the children left behind,
Hark to the howl of the tempest, the moan of the stormy wind.
The elves are waiting, waiting, for the golden days to come,
When grief shall be known no longer, nor faithful love be dumb;
Till the figures all are added up, and finished the mighty sum.
Ah yes, they are waiting, waiting, till grief shall be no more.
Hark to the rustle of raindrops, that kiss the deserted shore.
Ireland's Lore and Tales 