But thou art draped in all thy glow, supreme, Here in the luminous dream of this June night, When all the heaven’s roof doth seem to rise And lift and lift in endless floors of light; Glad wells of glory, infinities of space, Jewelled with wheeling systems, circling round In silvered journeyings o’er the seas of night.
Down under here the mother-earth is still And shadowed, save that for a spirit-wind That whispers in a voice, so low, so low, That scarcely makes a rustle in grasses heard; Or low, cool breathings of the forest edge. Down near by in the covert thicket hid, Like molten silver or white moving mist, Could you but see it, hark, a gurgling brook, That goes so silvern, silvern, down its stones, Blithely, like the sweet notes of a song, Tenderly, from dripping stone to stone, Filling the night with drowsèd melody.
This is a clime where spirits only dwell, And man knows he is god-like; love finds wings, And wisdom spans existence. Under here My soul doth find the infinite, glad rest, And all my heart grows kindred with the stars.
HARVEST SLUMBER SONG.
Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep, Red is the moon in the night’s still deep, White are the stars with their silver wings Folded in dreamings of beautiful things, And over their cradle the night wind sings, Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep.
Soft in the lap of the mother night The wee baby stars, all glowing and bright, Flutter their silver wings and crow To the watchful winds that kiss as they blow Round the air-cradle that swings so low Down in the lap of the mother night.
Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep, Red is the moon in the night’s still deep, And the wee baby stars are all folded and kissed In a luminous cradle of silver mist; And if ever they waken the winds cry, Whist, Sleep, little baby, sleep, sleep, sleep.