Classic Poem

In the houses where they're talking
still, together by the fireside,
and the daughter now is bringing
her wee babies to their slumber,
leading two, the tiniest carrying;

down the chimney black the breezes,
mid the crackling of the firelogs,
bring a murmur long and gentle,
three, then five, then seven chimings,
from a very distant country:

three, then five, then seven voices,
people's voices, slow and weary;
voices from the town of crosses,
people who no longer have things:
... Softly! softly! softly! softly!

No desire have we for knowing:
winter? summer? night? or daytime?
Softly you with yonder cradle!
Do not let the baby cry there!
Softly! softly! softly! softly!

No desire to remember
wine and grain-field, plain and mountain,
humble cabin, and the hearth-stone,
Mother and her babies ... Softly!
softly! softly! softly! softly!