The Trooping Faeries Poem by John Bliven Morin

They ride, they ride, all on astride
ghostly steeds, side by side,
out from the hollow hill they come;
no echoing horns, no beating drum.
in silence march they!

The line, the line, in perfect time,
bold warriors and their ladies, fine;
with gilded helm and silver spear,
their faces grim without a fear
except of breaking day.

They pass, they pass, through shadowed grass,
the column on their silent task;
What ancient battle seeking,
Or a crowning, queen or king,
their destination?

So bright, so bright; into the night
the column passes out of sight
and all is quiet there, and then
the forest creatures sound again
their ululation.