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?