Cauldron of the Giant

When the woods are calm enough
That even the leaves hold still,
The hermit hears underground
Stones shifting in discomfort,
Grinding teeth and cracking bones
On their molten iron beds.
Dreams of being gored and torn

On burning pikes of lava
Torment their everlasting
Sleeplessness within darkness.
This is what he imagines,
Listening to the ground groan
So faintly, so remotely,
So directly moving him.