A sound as soft as rising dew,
Breathes through the pale, cool morn.
At dawn, awake to tiny bells,
Ring for each Faerie born.
A Faerie born on a Summer's morn,
Is vain and ne're at ease.
But a faerie born on a Spring's morn,
Is e're willing to please.
For new life, the Faeries dance,
Inside their Faerie ring.
Listen to the soft, sweet voices,
Begin their songs they sing.
A faerie born on a Winter's morn,
Is cold like falling snow.
But a faerie born on Autumn's morn,
Is without care or woe.
Dancers, singers, all Faeries be,
Frolicking and trilling throughout the day.
With small and elven faces, smirk,
Mischievous, is what all the Faeries be.