“I am bored, Sir Thomas,” I said late one day,
“And there’s nothing to do around here;
So tell me a story of journeys or elves
And I’ll listen with an eager ear.”

“Take a seat, young David,” he answered to me,
“And my tale, your appetite will whet;
One of monsters and heroes and adventures
One so wondrous you’ll never forget.”

The land he created was one with great realms,
With a sky as bright as a flame.
One with strange creatures and even stranger men
Whose wild beasts can’t ever be tame.

There were never such trees or flowers like his,
Nor bright lakes that couldn’t reflect.
No grasses and stones without mean in their bones
Or great cities just born to be wrecked.

The heroes he wove through my hearing that night
Can never be changed or unmade,
And yet their great foes have my strong sympathy
For they couldn’t be better portrayed.

“The magic,” he said, “lived inside misty clouds.
The stairs to it were climbing up high.”
The way people saw it, it swirled down below
And the rain fell up toward the sky

His voice carried throughout his young world that night
He called their souls to come and to play
He whispered their creation with such slick ease
Like a fine artist does with wet clay

And he told me the story, passing the day
The thrill the tale gave struck me deep
I’ve tried writing it down many times in my life
Using false words, heap upon heap

Whoever invented this language we write
Didn’t know this story was thought
They didn’t anticipate such grand designs
That something in words can’t be caught

The tale isn’t meant to be written or trapped
Such stories aren’t made to be read
Adventures like his can only be spoken
By those getting children to bed