He will not rise, though all the world's awake;
No bird will bring him warning of the spring,
Nor warm winds stir him with their whispering,
Nor any cry his folded silence break,
Though we, who welcomed summer for his sake.
Mar spring's soft rapture with our murmuring.
How can we turn to hear the glad birds sing.
How joy from blossom or from sunlight take.
While he sleeps on unheeding and at rest?
Yet God, who keeps him cradled, knoweth best.
Without his flower-sweet face the spring is vain.
And gives our little one to us again.
Granting a tender vision to our sight,
To wander through the dream-ways of the night.