Wilfrid Thorley (1878–1963)

THERE must be fairy miners

Just underneath the mould,

Such wondrous quaint designers

Who live in caves of gold.

They take the shining metals,

And beat them into shreds;

And mould them into petals,

To make the flowers’ heads.

Sometimes they melt the flowers,

To tiny seeds like pearls,

And store them up in bowers

For little boys and girls.

And still a tiny fan turns

Above a forge of gold;

To keep with fairy lanterns,

The world from growing old.