Out in the dark wood,
on a midsummer's eve,
a man went a-rambling
'neath the rustling leaves.

The wood, it was quiet,
but there was music, too.
He took up his fiddle,
and began a wild tune.

It started soft and low,
and then began to wail.
So caught up was he,
that he wandered from the trail.

'Neath the towering pines,
he wandered near and far
and came upon a camp
that glittered like the stars.

There, to his startled eyes,
he saw the dancing elf.
There, to his startled ears,
he heard it for himself.

The other elves had stopped.
For him, there was only she.
For with her seljefloyte,
she played his harmony.

The song was dark and light,
as she compared to he.
The others were entranced,
and danced again with glee.

As figures twirled 'round them,
their eyes met, and played on.
The fiddler played tireless,
'til the coming of the dawn.

When the sunlight hit them,
the elves had gone away.
The fiddler looked before him,
and knew not what to say.

For there stood a birch tree,
slender and white and young,
but the tune haunted 'round him,
and on the air it hung.

It followed to the village,
and on that night he played.
The people marveled,
some said he had gone fae.

The fiddler kept his secret,
from folk both near and dear,
and came to be world-famous,
and people flocked to hear.

But now and then in summer,
when days grow ever long,
he takes to the wild wood,
and plays his haunting song.

Sometimes he think he sees her,
though he never can be sure,
and hears her seljefloyte
beneath the towering firs.

He searches for that white birch
where he first love had grown,
but never can he find it,
and so he walks alone.

The fiddler, he plays darkly,
and in his mind he hears
the wailing seljefloyte
that haunts him all his years.