| |
| DOWN deep in the hollow, so damp and so cold, | |
| Where oaks are by ivy o’ergrown, | |
| The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould, | |
| Lying loose on a ponderous stone. | |
| Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne, | 5 |
| A toad has been sitting more years than is known; | |
| And, strange as it seems, yet he constantly deems | |
| The world standing still while he’s dreaming his dreams,— | |
| Does this wonderful toad in his cheerful abode | |
| In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, | 10 |
| By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o’ergrown. | |
| |
| Down deep in the hollow, from morning till night, | |
| Dun shadows glide over the ground, | |
| Where a watercourse once, as it sparkled with light, | |
| Turned a ruined old mill-wheel around: | 15 |
| Long years have passed by since its bed became dry, | |
| And the trees grow so close, scarce a glimpse of the sky | |
| Is seen in the hollow, so dark and so damp, | |
| Where the glow-worm at noonday is trimming his lamp, | |
| And hardly a sound from the thicket around, | 20 |
| Where the rabbit and squirrel leap over the ground, | |
| Is heard by the toad in his spacious abode | |
| In the innermost heart of that ponderous stone, | |
| By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o’ergrown. | |
| |
| Down deep in that hollow the bees never come, | 25 |
| The shade is too black for a flower; | |
| And jewel-winged birds with their musical hum, | |
| Never flash in the night of that bower; | |
| But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the brake, | |
| Lies amid the rank grass, half asleep, half awake; | 30 |
| And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in, its trail, | |
| Moves wearily on like a life’s tedious tale, | |
| Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious abode, | |
| In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, | |
| By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o’ergrown. | 35 |
| |
| Down deep in a hollow some wiseacres sit, | |
| Like a toad in his cell in the stone; | |
| Around them in daylight the blind owlets flit, | |
| And their creeds are with ivy o’ergrown;— | |
| Their stream may go dry, and the wheels cease to ply, | 40 |
| And their glimpses be few of the sun and the sky, | |
| Still they hug to their breast every time-honored guest, | |
| And slumber and doze in inglorious rest; | |
| For no progress they find in the wide sphere of mind, | |
| And the world’s standing still with all of their kind; | 45 |
| Contented to dwell deep down in the well, | |
| Or move like a snail in the crust of his shell, | |
| Or live like the toad in his narrow abode, | |
| With their souls closely wedged in a thick wall of stone, | |
| By the gray weeds of prejudice rankly o’ergrown. | 50 |
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