Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was underground.
It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled away
Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the Elves and Goblins play.
That day, in barley fields below, the harvesters had known
Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns blown.
She came not back; the search for her in field and wood was vain:
They cried her east, they cried her west, but she came not again.
“She’s down among the Brown Dwarfs,” said the dream-wives wise and old,
And prayers were made, and masses said, and Rambin’s church bell tolled.
Five years her father mourned her; and then John Deitrich said: