The Hollow Wood

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The Hollow Wood

Out in the sun the goldfinch flits

Along the thistle-tops, flits and twits

Above the hollow wood

Where birds swim like fish⁠—

Fish that laugh and shriek⁠—

To and fro, far below

In the pale hollow wood.

Lichen, ivy, and moss

Keep evergreen the trees

That stand half-flayed and dying,

And the dead trees on their knees

In dog’s-mercury and moss:

And the bright twit of the goldfinch drops

Down there as he flits on thistle-tops.