Now the coppice still as evening
Cloaked in shadows sombre weaves,
Slowly wakes as autumn breezes
Stir the slumber of the leaves.
As the midnight hour approaches
Now the harvest moon is high,
Comes the strain of faerie music
Softer than a wood nymph's sigh.
There at the appointed moment
Gold and silver wings appear,
Thus the faerie dancers promise
The fertile earth another year.