dots-menu
×

Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Frances Shaw

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Dream Gift

Frances Shaw

REST, little child, on thy mother’s knee.

Softly she sings and weaves for thee,

Swift are her fingers over thy head,

Filmy and fine is the shining thread.

Sleep, my babe, while I weave and spin

A little dream to wrap thee in.

Rest, little child, beneath the vines;

Shadow and gleam in the warp she twines:

So shall the garment, when it is done,

Shield thee from cold and from the sun.

Sleep, my babe, while I weave and spin

A little dream to wrap thee in.

Rest, little one, the petals fall;

Thy mother broiders with them all:

A fragrance to the mantle clings

Which thou shalt bear at court of kings.

Sleep, my babe, while I weave and spin

A little dream to wrap thee in.

Hush thee, my own, from out the bloom

Bright wings have swept across the loom:

Thy trailing raiment this shall be

When back to heaven they welcome thee.

Sleep, my babe, while I weave and spin

A little dream to wrap thee in.