Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition
The Elf-Child (Author: Patrick Augustine Sheehan)

p.72

  1. 'Mother! is this the storm-fiend, swooping down to seize me?
    He bath slain all my autumn leaves with his lightning sword.'
    Nay, nay, my little one, 'tis angels' fingers straying
    In some wild midnight voluntary on the organ of the Lord!
    'Mother! stars are hidden, and the great cloud-billows
    Pile their big battalions o'er the flying moon;
    Will she be o'erwhelmed, and rise no more to cheer us?
    Nay, nay, my little one, 'tis moon-dance to storm-rune.
    'Mother, list! the death-watch, tapping, tapping, tapping;
    Is this my little coffin that they're nailing, plank to plank?'
    Mother's tears are falling, pitifully falling;
    Mother's heart is sinking in the midnight, drear and blank.
    But she whispered: Nay, my child 'tis angels' fingers swaying
    The woodbine's long, lithe tendrils against the window pane;
    Sleep, my child, thy little couch is canopied and fringed
    By the locked wings of angels against the storm and rain.
    Slept the weary elf-child; slept the mother weary;
    Angels folded ermine wings, like cope of kneeling priest;
    Then upwards through the storm-blast, on their white breasts cradled,
    Passed the sleeping elf-child to the Child-God's natal Feast.
    2. P.A. SHEEHAN