The Dream Child

Dream that a wee head lies by your own,
Soft dark ringlets by curls of gold,
Dream you can hear, Little-Boy-Alone,
Sweet child laughter that never grows old.
Out past the toadstools ringed on the lawn,
(Stars like the wild swans winging the sky)
Over the hilltops, into the dawn …
Clouds are the stairs he shall lead you by.
His is the feather of smoke that curls
Over the tent of the blue-black trees,
His is the tiny house in the flames,
Shining castle and jewelled keys:
His is the song you hear in a morn,
Cool as the fountains of paradise,
His is the cloud that flies like a bee
Into the rose of the sunset skies.