The ride of the Elven Queen

The old Bards voice rose above the hall, the single silver note bringing from his harp a respectful silence falling as his words touch all within hearing. All were there, all that could be. "Quiet my children, fear not the dark, the fire is warm and stout oak does withhhold the wights and evils of night. Dream and weep, for I sing the tale of the Elven Queen, A Kings foolish pride, her silver folk, …

…remains. For Elves, and unicorns, pixies tricks and growling Trolls so large. Nixies, dryads, nymphs so fair, talking pictures in golden frame, muttering Wizards with balding hair, and magics brilliant flame" The Old Bard stopped his song, the fire had fallen low, looking about the sleeping throng, watching the dreams soft glow, a tear fell to slide forgotten between stones well fit and new, a tear for all that an old old man once knew.