When the sun shines down,
On mothers fair,
They hold their babes,
They stroke their hair,
When the wind blows soft,
They clutch them tight,
For a greedy wind,
Turns the babies white.
When the autumn comes,
And the leaves turn red,
The mother looks down,
Holds the infant's head,
when the wind blows soft,
Though they clutch them tight,
Still the babies go,
In the dead of night.
When the winter comes,
And the gales don't hide,
And the mothers and babies,
Stay inside,
Then the wind blows hard,
And they watch in fright,
As the greedy wind,
Turns their babies white.
In the lovely spring,
When the flowers rise,
When the children laugh,
When the honeybee flies,
Still the soft wind blows,
Still the mother cries,
Still the soft wind comes,
And the baby dies.
It was the wind,
and nothing more,
That plucked her child,
And made her sore,
Made no mistakes
Felt no disease,
But all it takes,
Is that greedy breeze.
When the summer sun,
Or the flowers bright,
Come to fill your life,
With all peace and light,
Still the wind may come,
And you won't know why,
But the wind will hum,
And your child will die.
That pretty wind,
That tickles grass,
That sings in trees,
That flutters past,
Cannot be seen,
When morning breaks,
When baby lies,
And never wakes.
YOU ARE READING
Never told Nursery Rhymes
PoetryAre these the sort of things you like, my dear? the stories and the rhymes that make you shake? are you the sort who seeks darkness and fear? I surely hope you are, for your own sake. In here you'll meet the fear who has a face, in here you'll feel...
