 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
LXXVII. THE TROLLS.
The moon through the sky is gliding
Adown to her silvery rest;
The birds all silently cradled,
Asleep in each mossy nest.
Adown to her silvery rest;
The birds all silently cradled,
Asleep in each mossy nest.
The traveller, breathing enchanted
The night-balm soothing and still,
Is stayed by an uproar that greets him,
As he passes beside the hill:
The night-balm soothing and still,
Is stayed by an uproar that greets him,
As he passes beside the hill:
A blazing and blowing and glowing,
A hustle and bustle and burr,
A clattering and battering and banging,
A humming and drumming and whirr.
A hustle and bustle and burr,
A clattering and battering and banging,
A humming and drumming and whirr.
'Tis the trolls who are forging and welding
In the heart of the hollow mound:
Beating their anvils and singing
Busily under the ground.
In the heart of the hollow mound:
Beating their anvils and singing
Busily under the ground.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |