SOME HURT THING

I came to you quietly when you were lying

In perfect midnight sleep.

Your dark soft hair was all about your pillow,

So black upon the white.

I could not see your face except the lovely

Curve of the pale cheek;

Your head was bent as though your stirless slumber

Was sea-like heavy and deep.

The wind came gently in at the wide window,

Shaking the candle-light

And shadows on the wall; and there was silence,

Or sound but far and weak.

By the bedside your daytime toys were gathered:

The bright bell-ringing wheel,

Dolls clad in violent yellow and vermilion,

Strings of gay-coloured beads....

But you were far and far from these beside you,

Entranced with other joys

In fresh fields, among other children running:

Your voice, I knew, must peal

Purely among their high unearthly voices

Over green daisied meads,

While I stood watching your scarce-heaving slumber

Beside your human toys ——

And heard, faint from the woods all through the night,

The cry of some hurt thing that moaned for light.