He Told A Story To Her, A Story Old Yet New And Was It Of The Fa'Ry 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.