Ah, little child, as you lie in my breast,

Leaning your hair of gold close to my face,

Flushed in the gathering glow of the West,

Where shall we travel—to what joyous place?

Shall we refashion our castles in Spain,

Or sail to the Indies with Sinbad again,

Or noiselessly drift to where tired stars wane—

Shall it be Africa, Sinbad or Spain?

Speak, little child, and together we'll go

Back to the musical dreamlands we know.

Dear little child, you have wandered to rest.

While you are sleeping I wonder and think

Where you will go, and what land will be best

Treading for such baby feet, and I shrink.

Should they be hillsides of laughing and song,

Or gardens of mercy and righting of wrong,

Of weeping, or triumph, or love growing strong,

Journeys of shouting, of sorrow or song?

I can but love you and kiss your gold hair,

Happy in hoping that Christ may be there.