You lie a-doze beneath a buttercup
That flowers at the cruel time of year,
To shine its yellow glow at cheek and lip
And celebrate your coming, at the hour.

While faeries trip, and leap, and dance abroad
Enchanted at each tiny fingertip,
They sprinkle stars to sparkle at each eye
And plant a crescent moon within each cheek.

While I, mere mortal man, will watch you pout
And smile and gurgle in your new content,
You crook your magic fingers at my dearth
And charm away the weary hours I’ve spent.

And work your new-found woman’s wiles on me
Who should beware, or I may be undone,
What webs you weave, what spells, what sorcery;
My tiny witch, my faye… my Alison.

David Lewis Paget