Alice Guerin Crist (6 February 1876 - 13 June 1941 / Clare Castle)
They don’t believe in fairies,
Those old folk wide and staid,
They’ve never caught the glitter
Of their wings in forest shade.
For them the bush is just a place
Of timber, cows and corn,
They’ve never been up our creek
On a cool November morn.
From mossy banks all dotted
With violets breaking through,
Beneath the frondled maidenhair
Their shy eyes peep at you.
They sleep ‘neath tasselled tea-trees,
The drowsy summer day,
Where the tiny crimson love-birds
Around them dart and play.
The dew-drenched nights of Summer,
When gum-trees are aflower,
In foamy waves of sweetness
Bring round the fairies’ hour.
This is the time of frolic,
When they go floating high,
On wispy shreds of river mist,
Across the shining sky.
What! Don’t believe in fairies!
When they’re round you everywhere!
See them- who needs to see them?
You simply know they’re there.
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