Moon-Children
When with fingers all uncertain, tiny stars have torn the curtain
And are peering down the avenue of dreams;
When the night is soft and tender, then the moon is in his splendor
And his silver brothers swim in all the streams.
And he looks into the valleys, into city-streets and alleys,
But no beauty matches his in any place;
Till into the small rooms creeping, he beholds the babies sleeping—
And for shame he draws a cloud before his face!
And are peering down the avenue of dreams;
When the night is soft and tender, then the moon is in his splendor
And his silver brothers swim in all the streams.
And he looks into the valleys, into city-streets and alleys,
But no beauty matches his in any place;
Till into the small rooms creeping, he beholds the babies sleeping—
And for shame he draws a cloud before his face!
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