The Hollow Wood
OUT in the sun the goldfinch flitsAlong the thistle-tops, flits and twitsAbove the hollow woodWhere birds swim like fish--Fish that laugh and shriek--To and fro, far belowIn the pale hollow wood.
Lichen, ivy, and mossKeep evergreen the treesThat stand half-flayed and dying,And the dead trees on their kneesIn dog's-mercury and moss:And the bright twit of the goldfinch dropsDown there as he flits on thistle-tops.
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