The world is a child who roams all day
Through windswept meadows of gold and gray.
The gold flowers fade; he foils to sleep,
And night is his cradle wide and deep.
The moon-mother creeps from behind God's throne
And steals up the skies to protect her own.
She leans her breast 'gainst his cradle-rim
While her small star-children gaze down on him.
Stars are his brothers; clouds his dreams;
His mother's arms are the pale moon-beams.
When meadows again grow gold and gray,
He wakes from sleep and runs forth to play.
But every night from behind God's throne
The moon-mother steals to protect her own.
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