The moon is webbed with dreams,
Dark leaves fringe in the mist, and on the scarp
The braided sheaves stand in their stook-fast lanes.
Somewhere below the mist,
Hidden by stubble slopes, is a valley lake,
Circle of pattering leaves and a brown-stone stream.
And only now I hear,
Under the slopes of mist and the stiff grey wheat,
Your voice, beyond words, beyond blood, like a midnight star
That draws me through the mist,
Under the wheat-fields, down to the moon-black trees,
To clasp you in the dark to my empty heart.
My little child, lie still,
There in the cradle of my memories.
Sunshine and laughing music I have planned
For you, beyond all dreams,
Larksong and honey scent of summer air...
And you will rest, and I shall come to you
After your long day's sleep.
And we shall smile together; we shall say:
"How long it is! How long!" and "Mother dear,
Just see how I have grown!"
"No, little girl, you are my baby still"...
And we shall play away the aching years...
My little one, be still...
Or I shall wander to you down the slopes
Through the stiff tented sheaves, and quietly
Dissolve into the mist...
And it would be white song in a moon-pearl world,
Clasped quiet, wreathed in chaplets of dark-eyed daisies,
And wandering at peace
Over pearl meadows of forgetfulness,
Untouched by echoes of the coloured world...
My daughter, do not call!...
Lie quiet in your sunshine, do not walk
At night, between the mist and the moon-tipped leaves,
But spin bright-sparkled dreams,
And in a little while I'll come to you -
Not through the magic gate of misted moon
But bright in sunlit flowers...
Be patient, little daughter, in your dreams,
And I shall hammer God in relentless prayer:
"Lord, send her back to me!
Her soul was but the dart of a frail white bird.
Uncaught by man, winged back to its Creator...
O God of endless might,
Busy among the stars, the granite peaks,
The snowstorms and the roar of eternal waters,
Thay, Who hast all to do,
To forge wild comets, chisel crystal faces,
And work the secret things of the spinning atoms,
Leave this one thing undone,
Release her life again, send back her soul
That she may wake once more in a second birth,
And clasped in fragile flesh,
Another - yet the same - sleep in my arms,
And grow, a flower fashioned for Thy glory!"
My child, too young to name,
Rest a while longer, till the sunshine breaks
Into a thousand rainbows, and I call
You home into my arms.
Hush your dim weeping in the misted woods,
I shall not come tonight. So close your eyes
And dream of rising stars...
I shall not come tonight, nor any night,
But in the morning you shall come to me.
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