The Birthnight
Gerald Finzi, Walter de la Mare
Dearest, it was a night
That in its darkness racked Orion's stars;
A sighing wind ran faintly white
Along the willows, and the cedar boughs
Laid their wide hands in stealthy peace across
The starry silence of their antique moss:
No sound save rushing air
Cold, yet all sweet with Spring
And in thy mother's arms, couched weeping there
Thou, lovely thing