The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,
That years have crumbled, one by one,
Answereth—sometimes like a groan,
And sometimes like a sigh.
A little light through the forest-trees
Is twinkling very bright,
Like a distant star upon waveless seas,
Or a glow-worm of the night;
’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin,
The little light of the village inn!