Thomas the Rhymer

There's the road to heaven, and there's the road to hell, and there? That's the road to Faerie.

It was strange to see that no matter what color the clothing first appeared—and they were all hues, from earthy copper and garnet to the blue of sky and shadow—in different light all turned to some shade of green, as if there were a third plane to the cloth’s weaving beyond the warp and weft.

She is all that is gracious, Her spirit is comely, The work of her hands is fair.

All the while he's been moving towards her, both stoat to rabbit and moth to flame. And she's staring at him, flame-bright and rabbit-scared, too brave to look away.

In the sleepless dark, all things are possible, the worst most likely, all darkness visible. There he lay, as near as comfort, as far as the other side of death, silent and far away in sleep.

Blood—” I rasped. “The earth cannot hold all the blood that’s shed on it. And so the stream flows below. We have passed through it now; soon it will be gone from you.