My home crowned the high land; it had a stately grace.
I never think of my land but I see my mother's face;
I never smell the west wind that blows the silver ships
But old delight is in my heart and mirth is on my lips.
My land was a high land; my home was near the skies.
I never think of my land but a light is in my eyes;
I never smell the west wind that blows the summer rain —
But I am at my mother's knee, a little lad again.
Cradle Song. [Josephine Preston Peabody]
I
Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice
When at last a little boy's
Cheek lies heavy as a rose
And his eyelids close?
Gabriel, when that hush may be,
This sweet hand all heedfully
I'll undo for thee alone,
From his mother's own.
Then the far blue highway paven
With the burning stars of heaven,
He shall gladden with the sweet
Hasting of his feet: —
Feet so brightly bare and cool,
Leaping, as from pool to pool;
From a little laughing boy
Splashing rainbow joy!
Gabriel, wilt thou understand
How to keep this hovering hand? —
Never shut, as in a bond,
From the bright beyond? —
Nay, but though it cling and close
Tightly as a climbing rose,
Clasp it only so, — aright,
Lest his heart take fright.