THE BIRTH-NIGHT
THE eerie fingers of the rain
All day have stroked my window-pane,
While all the day and all the night
Elves have been grinding, keen and bright,
Weird, tiny knives of nerves and wits.
Upon my heart an Elf-king sits ...
A cruel, Lilliputian mite ...
And by my breath he flies a kite
Of hope in life or hope in death.
He tugs and scowls with all his might ...
The kite depends on my frail breath.
I watch the earthly colours bright,
Painted upon that fluttering kite.
.......
Little boys fly gay kites
And play with marbles ...
Little boys laugh and shout
In the wind and the sunshine....
.......
Little Boy ... oh little Boy ... were you ever an Elf-king?
.......
The eerie fingers of the rain
All day have stroked my window-pane.
.......
Far off I hear a voice explain
“She seems to listen to the rain ...
She has put up a plucky fight!
A splendid boy! Oh she’s all right!”
.......
Elves! Elves! Stop your grinding!
Rain! Rain! Stop your stroking!
Bright little kite is gaily flying
In the sky ... for I’m not dying ...
I am alive!... alive!... alive!
Heart and soul and senses five!
.......
Now as soon as I can say anything
I’ll make them show me that Elfin-king!