Build me a house of fairy ginger-bread,
Covered with candied fruits and sugarplums--
Fruits that decay not when November comes--
Sparkling and juicy, purple and gold and red.

Thatch me the roof with chips of cocoa-nut,
Sugared and white, as are December snows:
Around the eaves hang toffee-drops in rows.
With golden-syrup fill the water-butt.

Then in the flower garden dig deep wells
Of cowslip wine and bubbling lemonade;
Let the house walls with chocolate be laid,
And pave the floors with coloured caramels.

The Hosting of the Sidhe
by William Butler Yeats

The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling:
Away, come away;
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand--
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling:
Away, come away.

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