Stories seems to show a storyteller at two moments: the energetic telling, and the quiet that follows. In the first part, a man stomps his foot and puts everything into his performance. The odd, broken phrasing ("come self through out of him") makes it feel as though the story is forcing its way out of his body, through his hand and voice. He is so loud that the listening ear is "frightened," which suggests the power of his words, or perhaps a listener overwhelmed by them.
Then the poem shifts. "Now the fire has gone down" works as both a literal image of a dying fire and a sign that the man's energy has faded. What remains is repetition: old stories told "again, again and again." The mood turns from vivid and startling to tired, even a little sad. The speaker seems to observe this change with some wistfulness, noticing how a once-commanding voice now circles back over the same familiar tales.