Somewhere lost in the haze The sun goes down in the cold, And birds in this evil wood Chirrup home as of old; Chirrup, stir and are still, On the high twigs frozen and thin. There is no more noise of them now, And the long night sets in. Of all the wonderful things That I have seen in the wood I marvel most at the birds And their wonderful quietude. For a giant smites with his club All day the tops of the hill, Sometimes he rests at night, Oftener he beats them still. And a dwarf with a grim black mane Raps with repeated rage All night in the valley below On the wooden walls of his cage. |