In twilight hush before the moon,
Amidst the leaves in shadowy gloom,
I found a spindler, secretly,
Weaving, weaving, ceaselessly.
Silver threads, so fine, so light,
Spun for fairy folk at night—
Stoles and sashes for their queens,
Cloaks and tunics for their kings.
Dewdrops laced each garment bright,
To shimmer soft in silver light,
And stardust with a twinkling hue,
Embroidered in the midnight blue.
“Will you make a dress for me?”
I asked the spindler, quietly.
He paused his work, then shook his head.
“These are not for mortals,” he said.