Midnight, a donsy of gnomes
Appears in my garden,
Robed in bright red-brown tints
Wandering around like a warden,
Phrygian caps on their head,
Boots of birch bark that grows on a hill,
And a wide leather belt on the waist
Holding a knife, hammer, and drill—
The little dwarfs with
Wrinkled faces not because of age,
But for the grin and laugh
That they hold in their gaze,
Though no treasure I have,
Neither do I have an outstanding fate
Nor a glossy golden gate,
Still, they come and roam
Without any greed— without any hate.