The Heart Of Winter, by John Kaniecki

The white witch of winter
Was pale in skin
Her song fell as snow
With a heart of ice
For her lover had spurned
Her fascinated affection
You can feel the horror
It chills bone to stone
And pixies harmonize in sympathy
As any woman who dared
Open their treasure chest
To expose their tender soul
So it can be touched
Knows the melody
There is death in the forest
As days shorten
Like a wounded doe
Staggering in the brush
Leaving a trail of blood
For the hungry wolves
She struggles only
So her fawn may flee

Visit John's Amazon page here and his website here.

 

The Fairy Camp, by George Darley

from "Sylvia, Or, The May Queen: A Lyrical Drama" 1892

The fairy camp, with tents displayed,
Squadrons and glittering files arrayed
In strict battalia o'er the plain:
Gay trumpets sound the shrill refrain;
From field to field loud orders ring,
And couriers scour from wing to wing,
On a soft ambling jennet-fly
And girt with elfin chivalry
Who mingle in suppressed debate,
Rides forth the pigmy Autocrat.
Her ivory spear swings in its rest,
Close and succinct her martial vest
Tucked up above her snowy knee
A miniature Penthesilee!
Her Amazonian nymphs beside
Their queen, at humble distance ride;
Encased in golden helms their hair,
In corslets steel their bosoms fair,
With trowsered skirt loopt strait and high
Upon the limb's white luxury,
That clasps so firm, yet soft, each steed
Thinks himself manfully bestrid, And snorts and paws with fierce delight,
Proud of his own young Maiden knight,
Whose moony targe at saddle bow
Hangs loose, and glimmers as they go.
Now breathe your fifes and roll your drums,
'Tis the Queen's Majesty that comes!

 

The Fairy Dance, by Carolina Eliza Scott (1777-1853)

The fairies are dancing - how nimbly they bound!
They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground;
Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight,
All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.

Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear -
'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear, -
The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes,
And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.

How featly they trip it! how happy are they
Who pass all their moments in frolic and play,
Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares,
And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!

But where have they vanish'd? - a cloud 's o'er the moon,
I'll hie to the spot, - they'll be seen again soon -
I hasten - 'tis lighter, - and what do I view? -
The fairies were grasses, the diamonds were dew.

And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth
Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth;
Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud,
Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.

 

Pixie Freya, by Julie Kovacs

"Don't fall asleep!"
hushed pixie Freya to the golden-haired lad
who slept beneath a dogwood tree.

Dreamy eyed and waiting
for the train of pixies to sing and dance
down the rainbow cascade
the lad thought he saw a white four-petal flower
float in circles above his head
as he tried to stay awake.

Iridescent butterfly wings
gently brushed the lad's cheeks as he smiled
with eyes closed and the sound of tinkling bells
caressed his ears.

Pixie Freya swept her transparent arms
through the scented air
while the lad dreamed of dancing through
flowering meadows with the pixies
during the young days of summer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All poems are copyright of their respective authors.

Pixies of Eglantine, editor, Julie Kovacs. 2013-2017