To think of fairies not so much as dreams
And children’s wings, dust adrift on sunbeams,
As towering trees, crooked-branched and sly,
Drawing close to the water like their prey:
Not all the fey have wings. The same, I suppose,
Applies also to angels, and to us.
Of all the monsters I have met, not one
Has dwelt beneath my bed: I’ve seen
Not one true ghost who was not slave to drink,
Or more self-haunting than they haunt on us;
None of those red-eyed boys who kissed my neck
And drank my blood were lifeless to the touch.