Did I ask him what he wanted,
Then he smiling took my hand:
'Gnome, I many songs can sing thee,
But the best I have not sung yet.
Will you know its name? 'Tis silence.
Silence--silence! oh how well one
Learns it here in thy deep cavern;
Depth creates true modesty.
But the cold is o'er me creeping;
Gnome! 'tis true, my poor heart freezes.