by Zora Bernice May Cross
Make me the melody of meeting palms,
The roundelay of little running feet.
Strike me a measure to a trembling sweet
Of the mouth’s laughter and the fingers’ psalms.
I know of music in the ocean calms—
A siren singing where the long tides meet.
I know of lyrics in the leaf’s long beat,
But the child-chant is symphony of balms.
Sing it to me. O, sing it to my blood…
Through chord and fibre of my being run
The liquid quavers, and the pause and turn
Of every note in its seraphic flood.
Sing on that anthem of the sea and sun
And the deep dreams that in your being yearn.
Last updated September 05, 2017