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,