In Defense of Fairy Tales

Have you ever seen a rainbow
with a pot of gold at its end?
Have you ever heard the whispers
at night of the fairy folk, friend?
Did you ever catch a glimpse,
in a secret vale, of the fauns?
Perchance upon a moonlit night
see the dance of the leprechauns?

And when you were drifting to sleep
did you ever happen to spy
the Sandman or pixies or trolls?
Or perhaps hear the elves' lullaby?
I've trembled with fear at the sound
of the hooves of the great minotaurs
and fell to my knees in awe
of the proud, majestic centaurs.

But what I fear most is the throng,
with banner held high called "Progress",
as they vanquish all mythical things,
spurning magic they do not possess.
Heedless of things they cannot see,
they're blind to the grace of the naiads.
But poorer yet the ears must be
which ne'er have heard strains of dryads.
How miniscule the world must be
which lacks imagination.
And where the soul's ascent
from cave to illumination?

Small minded men would impugn us.
"Great intellects" might accuse
that we hide in Atlantic polity
"which can never be drawn into use."*
How tragic a world unpeopled
with angel or hero or demon.
And this, greatest threat of all-
the real world's devouring dragon-
a fragile world sans mystery,
whose glory is in banality.
A world so un-apocryphal
with hopelessly un-epic beauty.

Where are the prophets called artists
like L'Engle and Lewis and Milton?
Where are the mythmaker-poets
like Stevenson, Homer, and Tolkien?
They fashioned a world of romance
from fragments of ancient rune,
where memories of "Once upon a time"
still transform the night without moon.

(* from Milton's Areopagitica )