The Birthnight: To F.
Dearest, it was a night
That in its darkness rocked Orion's stars;
A sighing wind ran fairly 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.
Walter de la Mare (1906)