Pul Anderson included a version of this in his short story "The Queen of Air and Darkness" which Clam Chowder has recorded:
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Queen of Air and Darkness               
Sir Bela of Eastmarch   (Poul Anderson)                                    

It was the Ranger Arvid,
rode homeward through the hills,
among the shadowy shiver leaves,
along the Chiming Rills.
The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn

The night wind whispered round him,
with scent of Brock and Rue.
Both moons rose high above him,
and hills aflash with dew.
            The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn

And dreaming of that maiden,
who waited in the sun,
he stopped, amazed by starlight,
and so he was undone.
            The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn

For there beneath a Barrow,
that bulked athwart a moon,
the Outling Folk were dancing
in glass and golden shoon.

The Outling Folk were dancing,
like water, wind and fire.
To frosty-ringing harpsstrings
and never did they tire.
            The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn

To Arvid came she striding,
from where she watched the dance,
the Queen of Air and Darkness
with starlight in her glance.

With starlight, love and terror
in her immortal eye,
the Queen of Air and Darkness
cried softly under sky.

"Light down, you Ranger Arvid,
and join the Outling Folk.
You need no more be human,
which is a heavy yoke."
            The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn

He dared to give her answer,
"I may do naught but run.
A maiden waits me dreaming
in lands beneath the sun.

And likewise wait me comrades,
and tasks I would not shirk.
For what is Ranger Arvid,
if he lays down his work?

So cast your spells, you Outling,
and wreak your wrath on me.
Though, maybe, you can slay me,
you'll not make me unfree."
    The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn

The Queen of Air and Darkness,
stood wrapped about with fear.
And north-light flares and beauty,
he dared not look too near.

Until she laughed like harpsong,
and said to him in scorn,
"I do not need a magic,
to make you always mourn.

I send you home with nothing,
except your memory,
of moonlight, Outling music,
night breezes, dew and me.

And that will run behind you,
a shadow on the sun,
and that will lie beside you
when every day is done.

In work and play and friendship,
your grief will strike you dumb
for thinking what you are - and
what you might have become.

Your dull and foolish woman,
treat kindly as you can.
Go home now, Ranger Arvid,
set free to be a man."
    The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn

In flickering and laughter,
the Outling Folk were gone.
He stood, alone, by moonlight
and wept until the dawn.
    The Dance weaves under the Fire-thorn