A voice, giddy on honey wine, confesses to being drunk on a nectar pressed from moon-unfolded eglantine that fairies gather in hyacinth bowls. The setting is a desolate castle yard at night, where bats, dormice, and moles lie sleeping in walls or under the turf—the emptiness somehow alive with hidden revelry. The speaker, lightheaded and strangely attuned, watches what happens when a few drops spill onto the summer earth or their scent rises with the dew. The animals’ dreams turn jocund; they gibber with joy, as if sharing a raucous, secret joke. This is no ordinary spillage: only a handful of fairies can keep those delicate new bowls upright, so the wine is a rare blessing. The mood is hushed, intoxicated, and faintly wild—like a spell of midsummer mischief that links the speaker, the fairies, and the humblest sleepers in a fleeting, honey-soaked joy. The whole experience shimmers with a drowsy, magical fizz.
Fragment: Wine of the Fairies — Summary
I am drunk with the honey wine Of the moon-unfolded eglantine, Which fairies catch in hyacinth bowls. The bats, the dormice, and the moles Sleep in the walls or under the sward Of the desolate castle yard; And when 'tis spilt on the summer earth Or its fumes arise among the dew, Their jocund dreams are full of mirth, They gibber their joy in sleep; for few Of the fairies bear those bowls so new!