Her children all were gathered round her,
One olden, golden day;
Between her tender, drooping eyelids
She watched them feed or play.
Upon the lion's living velvet
She pillowed her fair head;
A white fawn pushed its dewy muzzle
Beneath the hand that fed.
A goldfinch clung upon a ringlet
That brushed her wide, smooth brow;
And, thence, right merrily he answered
His comrades on the bough.
But at her feet there lay a sleeper,
Of subtly-fashioned limb;
Whose motion, force and will to be,
Kept yet their prison dim.
And round about his couch of slumber
The rest a space did make:
"Your peace" (the Mother told her children)
"Is broken, if he wake!
"Lo! this—the best of all created—
Shall yet an evil bring:
And ye in doubt shall graze the pasture,
And ye in fear shall sing.
"For your dear sake, my lesser children,
I keep him long asleep;
Play on, sing on, a happy season—
His dreams be passing deep!"
Thus, while her children gathered round her,
And while Man sleeping lay,
The fair Earth-Mother softly murmured,
"It is your Golden Day!"