The Child Of The Morn
A knock at the door;
an early morn;
little marks
of little feet,
mud splashed on the window sill;
surely some child was here for a while.
I know how to call her back!
I will write the name in the mud-bath ,
on the sun-soaked window-pane.
The child will stare
with the faraway look
that seems not to heed
the hand that wrote.
But be certain that the name will ring a bell
The child has a name the child knows not.
But the fairy of the twilight will whisper it for me,
and tomorrow I shall hide here
behind the window, behind the raw leaves of the palmy day
and watch the secret language of the child
unfold at the heart the core of delight
A knock at the door;
an early morn;
little marks
of little feet,
mud splashed on the window sill;
surely some child was here for a while.
I know how to call her back!
I will write the name in the mud-bath ,
on the sun-soaked window-pane.
The child will stare
with the faraway look
that seems not to heed
the hand that wrote.
But be certain that the name will ring a bell
The child has a name the child knows not.
But the fairy of the twilight will whisper it for me,
and tomorrow I shall hide here
behind the window, behind the raw leaves of the palmy day
and watch the secret language of the child
unfold at the heart the core of delight
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