The tower sleeps? What is it dreaming?
It rises, gloomy, like a ghost.
A prison here? A belfry seeming?
Who is there that can guess its past?
And grizzled time roams round about it,
Like hours' tramp, like a minute sped...
And the long centuries uncounted
Have made of the grey stones a bed.
The years built, without work nor effort,
A nest of legends, tales of yore...
And now, today, these men in heavy
Boots tramp the drawbridge-plank once more.
They've swathed the tower with forms mysterious;
None will untie the ends once more,
Not mighty Scandinavian heroes,
Nor merchants from the Golden Horn.
And to the tower wires now can anchor
Distance so fast the mind must reel...
Foresires, could you but understand the
Truth of antennae of chilled steel.
You cannot comprehend, forefathers,
Your tower now has a task renowned,
For from infinity it gathers
Voices into its shining crown.