Oh, where do fairies hide their heads
When snow lies on the hills
When frost has spoil'd their mossy beds
And crystalized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o're the plain,
And drafts of dew they cannot sip
Till green leaves come again
Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps in small blue diving bells
They plunge beneath the waves,
Inhabiting the wreathed shells
That liein coral caves
Perhaps in red Vesuvius Carousals they maintain
And cheer their little spirits up
Till green leaves come again
Till green leaves come again.

When back they come there'll be glad mirth
And music in the air,
And fairy wings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
will bar the doors in vain,
No keyhole will be fairy proof
When green leaves come again
Till green leaves come again.
- - Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797–1839)