When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
there!"--mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I
shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and
kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will
hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the
lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night,
I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep mother, sleep."
On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie
upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your
eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you
wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours'
children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the
music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,
"Where is our baby, sister? Mother, you will tell her softly,
"He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my
soul."
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