Georgia Wood Pangborn

“TONIGHT is many-sorrowed,” said the moon:

She and the clouds were whirled above the moor;

Small as a glow-worm shone my cottage door.

“Cometh the morning late or over-soon

The night is sorrow’s measure,” ran her rune.

Do ye not hear forgotten littlenesses,

Mother, whose kiss lies warm on children’s tresses?

Hear, then, the soundless rush of elfin shoon,

Feet that are but the wind across the grass—

How long ago they passed to women’s wailing!

Women whose ancient sorrow leaves you this,

Ye that have borne!—that not a breeze shall pass

Across your hair but ’tis small fingers trailing,

And tears shall sting you at your children’s kiss.