Sitting in Michael's Lap
Bright queen of woodland denizens
Of mythological reknown:
Your palace is an ancient oak;
A wreath, your crown.
All sparkling eyes and impish smile,
Unslippered feet and windblown hair,
You brave the wilds of the unknown
With spirits fair;
With fairies dancing, hand in hand,
You sing their chant in airy voice;
The forest echoes your delight --
The trees rejoice;
They whisper secrets in the breeze
And, listening, you cup your ears
While playful zephyrs tug your dress
Then disappear ...
The sunbeams dappling through the leaves
Leave fairy-kisses on your face.
Your presence makes this quiet glen
A hallowed place;
Enchanted child, I must believe
These fancies are no less than true:
For there, reflected in your eyes,
I see them too.
"Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, morierus"
(Now as I hear this bell tolling softly for another, it says to me, "Thou must die.")