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 twilight keep

    All dread 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 avow

    Such devilish things exist，

    Who have planned his murder， for they know

    Of some most haughty deed or thought

    That waits upon his future days，

    And would through hatred of the bays

    Bring that to nought.

    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，

    Wailing 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.