The world is a child who roams all day

Through windswept meadows of gold and gray.

The gold flowers fade; he foils to sleep,

And night is his cradle wide and deep.

The moon-mother creeps from behind God's throne

And steals up the skies to protect her own.

She leans her breast 'gainst his cradle-rim

While her small star-children gaze down on him.

Stars are his brothers; clouds his dreams;

His mother's arms are the pale moon-beams.

When meadows again grow gold and gray,

He wakes from sleep and runs forth to play.

But every night from behind God's throne

The moon-mother steals to protect her own.