Who waiteth very patiently in the night desert
For dawn of a new morrow?
And the wild beasts draw near unto her: they are tired
But none is afraid,
For her lap is like to a mother’s, where little children
Play till they weary and sleep:
There dryads bring her their dreams,
And the fairy folk are at home.—
Who liveth very old, alive with young green,
And waketh her heart with song for the coming of light?