A man has a hope for heaven,
But soulless a faery dies,
As a leaf that is old, and withered and cold
When the wint’ry vapours rise.
Soon shall our wings be stilled,
And our laughter over and done,
So let us dance where the yellow lance
Of the barley shoots in the sun.
So let us dance on the fringed waves,
And shout at the wisest owls
In their downy caps, and startle the naps
Of the dreaming water-fowls.
And fight for the black sloe-berries,
For soulless a faery dies,
As a leaf that is old, and withered and cold
When the wintry vapours rise.