With roots extending to the underworld
the hazel at the borders hides fairies,
and all creation is astir.
Unbounded and incomprehensible
this fountain beneath the hazel is still,
and when I think of that I go to seek
the turning gyre amid the gold leaves
flitting by with the passage of my dream.
I fell asleep beneath the hazel tree,
and in my waking saw faeries glinting
and dancing their tunes to the golden dawn.