There was an old woman Who lived under the hill And if she’s not gone She lives there still. - John Crowley

But is this not what poetry must do? To say the nothing that cannot be said?

Prosper Olander had never been in a cathedral, but now he felt something like that, the experience of entering suddenly a space so large, so devoted to a single purpose, that the insides of the heart are drawn for a moment outward and into it, trying to fill it, and failing.

Sometimes the snake's-hands in a story are the best part, if the story is a long one.