Black wave the trees in the forest
And a rough wind hurries by,
But the swineherd's toddling daughter
Knows where fallen pine-cones lie.

And girt in a snowy apron
— She scampers, alert and gay,
To the hidden pool in the hollow
Where the wan witch people play.

They smile, the wee wrinkled women,
They creep to her pinafore;
And lay in her lap strange treasures
Trolls brought from the ocean's floor.

And they marvel at her blonde tresses
And braid them with scented fern;
And they lave her dusty, brown ankles
With snow water from the burn.

But nobody listens, or heeds them,
The swineherd hews a new trail,
The swineherd's wife in the cottage
Pours the sour milk from the pail.

And little Gerta lags homeward
Dream-shod through the shadows deep;
Her eyelids heavy with wonder —
They whisper, " She's been asleep. "