Take down from off the highest shelf the book you think so grand.

We'll travel off together,

To lands of golden weather,

For well we know the winding road that leads to Fairy Land.



A long, long road, no byway,

The fairy kings' broad highway,

Sometimes we'll see a castled hill stand up against the blue,

And every brook that passes,

A-whispering through the grasses,

Is just a magic fountain filled with youth and health for you;

And we'll meet fair princesses

With shining golden tresses,

Some pacing by on palfreys white, some humbly tending sheep;

And merchants homeward faring,

With goods beyond comparing,

And in the hills are robber bands, who dwell in caverns deep.



Sometimes the road ascending,

Around a mountain bending,

Will lead us to the forests dark, and there among the pines

Live woodmen, to whose dwelling

Come wicked witches, telling

Of wondrous gifts of golden wealth. There, too, are lonely mines.

But busy gnomes have found them,

And all night work around them,

And sometimes leave a bag of gold at some poor cottage door.

There waterfalls are splashing,

And down the rocks are dashing,

But we can hear the sprites' clear call above the torrent's roar.



Where quiet rivers glisten

We'll sometimes stop and listen

To tales a gray old hermit tells, or wandering minstrel's song.

We'll loiter by the ferries,

And pluck the wayside berries,

And watch the gallant knights spur by in haste to right a wrong.

Oh, little 'Trude and Teddy,

For wonders, then, make ready,

You'll see a shining gateway, and, within, a palace grand,

Of elfin realm the center;

But pause before you enter

To pity all good folk who've missed the road to Fairy Land.



Cecil Cavendish