In the town of Soleure the time is well kept!
Ever, new steel they cut and trim,
While into the street the filings are swept.
Only waste metal, unfit for use;
But it catches the sunshine and glitters still—
And what are those thrushes doing there,
Each with a scrap of steel in its bill?
The watchmaker’s boy has paused with his broom,
And he follows the birds with a boy’s keen eye;
Their secret he learns, and whither they go,