Cold is the night, and still, and strange
        Stars they glitter and shimmer.
        All asleep in the lonely grange
        Under the midnight's glimmer.
        On glides the moon in gulfs profound;
        Snow on the firs and pines around,
        Snow on the roofs is gleaming.
        All but the goblin are dreaming.
        
        Gray he stands at the barnyard door,
        Gray by the drifts of the white there,
        Looks, as oft he has looked before,
        Up at the moon so bright there;
        Looks at the woods, where the fir-trees tall
        Shut the grange in with their dusky wall;
        Ponders--some problem vexes,
        Some strange riddle perplexes--
        
        Passes his hand o'er beard and hair,
        Shaking his head and cap then:
        "Nay, that riddle's too hard, I swear,
        I'll ne'er guess it mayhap then."
        But, as his wont is, he soon drives out
        All such thoughts of disturbing doubt,
        Frees his old head of dizziness,
        And turns at once to business.
        
        First he tries if the locks are tight,
        Safe against every danger.
        Each cow dreams in the pale moonlight
        Summer dreams by her manger.
        Dobbin, forgetful of bits that gall,
        Dreams like the cows in his well-filled stall,
        Leaning his neck far over
        Armfuls of fragrant clover.
        
        Then through the bars he sees the sheep,
        Watches how well they slumber,
        Eyes the cock on his perch asleep,
        Round him hens without number.
        Carlo wakes at the goblin's tread,
        Wags then his tail and lifts his head;
        Well acquainted the two are,
        Friends that both tried and true are.
        
        Last the goblin slips in to see
        How all the folk are faring.
        Long have they known how faithfully
        He for their weal is caring.
        Treading lightly on stealthy toes,
        Into the children's room he goes,
        Looks at each tiny treasure:
        That is his greatest pleasure.
        
        So has he seen them, sire and son,
        Year by year in that room there
        Sleep first as children every one.
        Ah, but whence did they come there?
        This generation to that was heir,
        Blossomed, grew old, and was gone--but where?
        That is the hopeless, burning
        Riddle ever returning.
        
        Back to the barn he goes to rest,
        Where he had fixed his dwelling
        Up in the loft near the swallo's nest,
        Sweet there the hay is smelling.
        Empty the swallow's nest is now,
        Back though he'll come when the grass and bough
        Bud in the warm spring weather,
        He and his mate together.
        
        Always they twitter away about
        Places through which they've travelled
        Caring naught for the goblin's doubt,
        Though it were ne'er unravelled.
        Through a chink in one of the walls,
        Moonlight on the old goblin falls,
        White o'er his beard it wanders;
        Still he puzzles and ponders.
        
        Forest and field are silent all,
        Frost their whole life congealing,
        Save that the roar of the waterfall
        Faintly from far is stealing.
        Then the goblin, half in a dream,
        Thinks it is Time's unpausing stream,
        Wonders whither 'tis going,
        And from what spring 'tis flowing?
        
        Cold is the night, and still, and strange,
        Stars they glitter and shimmer.
        All yet sleep in the lonely grange
        Soundly till morn shall glimmer.
        Now sings the moon in night profound;
        Snow on the firs and pines around,
        Snow on the roofs is gleaming.
        All but the goblin are dreaming.

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