Oh Come to the Sylvan Ball

{I dedicate this blog post to my Faerie Friend, Cielo, who lives through the blogwoods over at The House in the Roses. She has blessed me abundantly and has plenty to share with everyone. Come along, take my hand, and I will show you the way to her Hopeful Friday celebration.}

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Fairy Elves,
Whose midnight revels, by a forest side
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon
Sits arbitress.

~~John Milton~~
Paradise Lost
Book 1, line 742

As softly fades the light of day I hear a familiar rustle in the woods. With myriad duties to attend before night’s end, I wrestle with the urge to follow the sound into the gentle surrounds. Another sound draws near my ear and I flee the deck and follow in pied-piper fashion.

Down the path and around the bend,

Under the light of a full gathering moon,
I find further invite to evening’s event.

I stand on the threshold of careless disregard for hearth and home needs, yet close my eyes and whisper softly:

“Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight,
Make me a child again, just for to-night!”*

I plunge through the thicket under watchful eyes of an on-looking moon, as dulcet trills of evensong bid me enter the Sylvan Ball.

That rustle that once seemed certain to be but fallen leaves, proves well to be the taffeta- and silk-clad ladies as they scurry to meet up on the dance floor and celebrate the ending of another blissful day.

Full of ruffles and rainbow’d hues they sway and glide and wink from behind foliage polished and bright.

Full-bloomed faces laugh in the face of the growing shadows,

As shy fresh buds step forward to join the assembly of woodland’s fairest.

Small choruses chime in with glee, And others wave lest they be forgotten. Shy ones peep demurely.

Some shrink back,

Whilst others surround themselves with a host of familiar ones and step to center stage.

This humble fellow donned his finest of velvet and boldly joins the festivities

alongside the pristine beauty of those in bride-like splendor.

Flourished and fancy, so many dance about.

Why even the tiniest clad in weeds oft-rejected finds welcome in this spritely gathering.

Like dancing princesses in tales by brothers Grimm, these sylvan dwellers dance to tunes embedded deep in the heart of all children. I count it all joy to have stepped back from the hearth, ducked under the fig, and crept ‘round the bend to fall headlong into this childish delight. I danced ‘til my slippers wept rents, and at the final resting tone I stole back through the verdant curtain and plunged into the sudsy waters of kitchen care . . . yet, humming a tune of Sylvan revelry and dreaming of my next dancing chance.

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*from “Rock Me to Sleep”
By Elizabeth Akers Allen
(1832-1911)

**All photos taken in my garden.