A Little Boy In The Morning

He will not come, and still I wait. He whistles at another gate Where angels listen. Ah, I know He will not come, yet if I go How shall I know he did not pass Barefooted in the flowery grass?

The moon leans on one silver horn Above the silhouettes of morn, And from their nest sills finches whistle Or stooping pluck the downy thistle. How is the morn so gay and fair Without his whistling in its air? The world is calling, I must go. How shall I know he did not pass Barefooted in the shining grass?