We talk of fairies, nymphs et al., But are they really real at all? If so, we would, a path now take, A fantastic version, of us to make.
Not too bold, not too short,
Not so suave, or brave at heart.
That we could not consider real,
Less of them; us with more appeal.
To flit from tree or bower, To sniff sweet nectar, as bee from flower. To read the minds of mortals sad, To make our merriment, then more glad.
Who would then, not be a Puck, To tamper with poor human luck. Or perhaps, as some celestial fire, Would in us, pure dreams inspire. How sad, how sad the case of mortal man, Who would wish, some goblin intervene. We, unable, unwilling, own path now lies, Seen only through unearthly eyes. I fear that we would best now leave, Phantasmic creatures to provide, A better version, for life’s guide, When they themselves, have much to hide. So Titania, Oberon, and all the rest, Let’s take the very lot in jest. As we, poor mortals make our sorry way, Through life, but not in some fantastic play. And yet, on some sweet, mid-summer night, My earth-bound fantasies take flight. There you are, to me so real, So near to tangible, yet surreal.