In the dwarve's workshop, she slowly went insane;
Listening day by day, to the tiny hammers beating,
As she stared, through dirty window panes,
Where the lambs and timid heifers, bleating.
In the round of days, she thought the best was done;
In a careless way, the restlessness had won:
Down in the mines, there's a curious kind of thunder;
While up above, a little poison can do wonders.