There was a man who dwelt alone, as day and night went past he sat as still as carven stone, and yet no shadow cast. The white owls perched upon his head beneath the winter moon; they wiped their beaks and thought him dead under the stars in June. There came a lady clad in grey in the twilight shinning: one moment she would stand and stay, her hair with flowers entwining. He woke, as had he sprung from stone, and broke the spell that bound him; he clasped her fast, both flesh and bone, and wrapped her shadow round him. There never more she walks her ways by sun or moon or star; she dwells below where neither days nor any nights there are. But once a year when caverns yawn and hidden things awake, they dance together then till dawn and a single shadow make.

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