A Prayer for My Son

    That my Michael may sleep sound，

    Nor cry， nor turn in the bed

    Till his morning meal come round；

    And may departing twilight¹ keep

    All dread² afar till morning‘s back，

    That his mother may not lack

    Her fill of sleep.

    Bid the ghost have sword in fist：

    Some there are， for I avow³

    Such devilish things exist，

    Who have planned his murder， for they know

    Of some most haughty⁴ deed or thought

    That waits upon his future days，

    And would through hatred⁵ of the bays

    Bring that to nought⁶.

    Though You can fashion everything

    From nothing every day， and teach

    The morning stars to sing，

    You have lacked articulate speech

    To tell Your simplest want， and known，

    Wailing⁷ upon a woman‘s knee，

    All of that worst ignominy

    Of flesh and bone；

    And when through all the town there ran

    The servants of Your enemy，

    A woman and a man，

    Unless the Holy Writings lie，

    Hurried through the smooth and rough

    And through the fertile and waste，

    Protecting， till the danger past，

    With human love.