Under The Rose

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, Crookéd and gnarled and gray, Against the moon seemed some crutched 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.