He told a story to her, A story old yet new — And was it of the Faery Folk That dance along the dew?
The night was hung with silence As a room is hung with cloth, And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush, Swooned dim the down-white moth.
Along the east a shimmer, A tenuous breath of flame, From which, as from a bath of light, Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.
And pendent in the purple Of heaven, like fireflies, Bubbles of gold the great stars blew From windows of the skies.
He told a story to her, A story full of dreams — And was it of the Elfin things That haunt the thin moonbeams?
Upon the hill a thorn-tree, Crooked and gnarled and gray, Against the moon seemed some crutch'd hag Dragging a child away.
And in the vale a runnel, That dripped from shelf to shelf, Seemed, in the night, a woodland witch Who muttered to herself.
Along the land a zephyr, Whose breath was wild perfume, That seemed a sorceress who wove Sweet spells of beam and bloom.
He told a story to her, A story young yet old — And was it of the mystic things Men's eyes shall ne'er behold?
They heard the dew drip faintly From out the green-cupped leaf; They heard the petals of the rose Unfolding from their sheaf.
They saw the wind light-footing The waters into sheen; They saw the starlight kiss to sleep The blossoms on the green.
They heard and saw these wonders; These things they saw and heard; And other things within the heart For which there is no word.
He told a story to her, The story men call Love, Whose echoes fill the ages past, And the world ne'er tires of.
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