Marjorie L. C. Pickthall (1883–1922)

WHEN the red moon hangs over the fold,

And the cypress shadow is rimmed with gold,

O little sheep, I have laid me low,

My face against the old earth’s face,

Where one by one the white moths go,

And the brown bee has his sleeping place.

And then I have whispered, ‘Mother, hear,

For the owls are awake and the night is near,

And whether I lay me near or far

No lips shall kiss me,

No eye shall miss me,

Saving the eye of a cold white star.’

And the old brown woman answers mild,

‘Rest you safe on my heart, O child.

Many a shepherd, many a king,

I fold them safe from their sorrowing.

Gwenever’s heart is bound with dust,

Tristram dreams of the dappled doe,

But the bugle moulders, the blade is rust;

Stilled are the trumpets of Jericho,

And the tired men sleep by the walls of Troy.

Little and lonely,

Knowing me only,

Shall I not comfort you, shepherd-boy?’

When the wind wakes in the apple tree,

And the shy hare feeds on the wild fern stem,

I say my prayers to the Trinity,—

The prayers that are three and the charms that are seven

To the angels guarding the towers of heaven,—

And I lay my head on her raiment’s hem,

Where the young grass darkens the strawberry star,

Where the iris buds and the bellworts are.

All night I hear her breath go by

Under the arch of the empty sky.

All night her heart beats under my head,

And I lie as still as the ancient dead,

Warm as the young lambs there with the sheep.

I and no other,

Close to my Mother,

Fold my hands in her hands, and sleep.