He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:

“Sleep, little one, sleep!”

On yonder mountain-side a vine

Clings at the foot of a mother pine;

The tree bends over the trembling thing

And only the vine can hear her sing:

“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—

What shall you fear when I am here?

Sleep, little one, sleep.”

The king may sing in his bitter flight,