They say that prophecies work out their own
fulfilment." And then she read as much of "A Prophecy" as the doctor had
copied.
* * * * *
"Though, the rushes that will make
Its cradle are by the lake--
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe is on the cotton tree--
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm is on the silly sheep--
Listen, starlight, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my lullaby!
Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee!
Midst the quiet all around thee!
Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee!
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee.
Child, I know thee! Child no more,
But a poet ever-more!
See, see, the lyre, the lyre!
In a flame of fire
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring,
Past the eyesight's bearing.
Wake it from its sleep,
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze--
Amaze, amaze!
It stares, it stares, it stares,
It dares what none dares!
It lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharmed and on the strings
Paddles a little tune and sings,
With dumb endeavor sweetly--
Bard thou art completely;
Little child,
O' the western wild.
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