The Child's Dream

Last night I was a child that just had learned to die,A child like me, but newly bornInto a beautiful mornOf starry sky.I saw the morning light,Yet there were stars, silver and golden, softly bright.

The stars were there, and music—for the shapes, white-clad,Of angels, thousands, stood to sing,All white of robe and wing.A harp they had,A viol, or a lute;All sang but one; she smiled and held her harpstrings mute.

My heart was full of tears; I laughed when I knew why:The angel of the whitest wing,She who cared not to sing,Leaned from the skyAnd smiled, and I could seeMy mother's lovely eyes; my mother smiled at me.

In this our world I never saw my mother's face;She died; she died as I was born.But in that starry mornI found the placeWhere she abides, and knewThey were her eyes, and wept, yet laughed and kissed her too.