The faerie question is a loaded one... if you ask me if I believe in faeries, I will say yes and no. I don't believe in childlike-tinkerbells-frolicking-in-the-garden faeries. I think faeries exist as bundles of the earth's energy in places of nature... not in human form at all, just *there*.
There is a narrow logging road about a mile from my house that I sometimes ride my bike down. The road crosses a river, which splits and rejoins itself several times, creating tiny, rocky islands connected by fallen trees. I scramble down the slope to the stony shore of the river, walk through the alder trees and over massive logs, surrounded by the hiss of the water. There is a presence along the stream that flows in the water's bubbles and flits through the leaves. This is faerie... invisible slivers of mother earth.
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.