2.
Fir-tree with green finger’s knocking
At the window small and low,
And the moon, the yellow list’ner,
Through it her sweet light doth throw.
Father, mother, gently snoring,
In the neighbouring chamber sleep,
Yet we two are gaily talking,
So that wide awake we keep.
“That thou’rt wont to pray too often,
“Is a thing I’ll credit ne’er,
“For thy lips’ convulsive quiv’ring
“Ill accords with thoughts of prayer.
“Ay, that quiv’ring, cold and evil,
“Every time affrights me sore,
“Yet thine eyes’ mild lustre husheth
“Thy sad anguish evermore.
“I, too, doubt if thou believest
“All that is the Christian’s boast;
“Dost believe in God the Father,
“In the Son and Holy Ghost?”—
Ah, my child! when yet an infant
Sitting on my mother’s knee,
I believed in God the Father,
Ruling all things wondrously;
Who the beauteous earth created,
And the men that on it move;
Who to suns, moons, stars predestined
All their tracks wherein to rove.
When, my child, I grew still bigger
Many more things I conceived,
And my reason wax’d yet stronger,
And I in the Son believed.
In the Son beloved, who, loving,
Open’d to us love’s door wide,
And who in reward, as usual,
By the mob was crucified.