English poem
The Birth-Night
by Louise Morey Bowman (1882–1944)
The eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane, While all the day and all the night Elves have been grinding, keen and bright, Weird, tiny knives of nerves and wits. Upon my heart an Elf-king sits ... A cruel, Lilliputian mite ... And by my breath he flies a kite Of hope in life or hope in death. He tugs and scowls with all his might ... The kite depends on my frail breath. I watch the earthly colours bright, Painted upon that fluttering kite.
* * * * *
Little boys fly gay kites And play with marbles ... Little boys laugh and shout In the wind and the sunshine....
* * * * *
Little Boy ... oh little Boy ... were you ever an Elf-king?
* * * * *
The eerie fingers of the rain All day have stroked my window-pane.
* * * * *
Far off I hear a voice explain “She seems to listen to the rain ... She has put up a plucky fight! A splendid boy! Oh she’s all right!”
* * * * *
Elves! Elves! Stop your grinding! Rain! Rain! Stop your stroking! Bright little kite is gaily flying In the sky ... for I’m not dying ... I am alive!... alive!... alive! Heart and soul and senses five!
* * * * *
Now as soon as I can say anything I’ll make them show me that Elfin-king!