Song of the Children

The World is ours till sunset,Holly and fire and snow;And the name of our dead brotherWho loved us long ago.

The grown folk mighty and cunning,They write his name in gold;But we can tell a littleOf the million tales he told.

He taught them laws and watchwords,To preach and struggle and pray;But he taught us deep in the hayfieldThe games that the angels play.

Had he stayed here for ever,Their world would be wise as ours--And the king be cutting capers,And the priest be picking flowers.

But the dark day came: they gathered:On their faces we could seeThey had taken and slain our brother,And hanged him on a tree.