Little man-child in repose,
I would golden-thread your woes,
Give to you a thornless rose;
Spare you from each harmful thing,
From the bee would take its sting;
Beg time's hand with gentle touch
Hold your dreams from shattering,
Keep for you a brimming hutch ...
Yet I dare not ask too much
Tragic would it be to shield
From the world that calls to wield
Strength to bid the battlefield
Bloom with lilies ... Grow! Rescind
War, my son, love-disciplined.
Eaglet, try your wings! Be free!
Loose the Master's winnowing wind!
Lest the earth should, dying, see
Even babes in agony.
