By and By

What falls on us familiar at the end

And blankets even the daylight in a blur

That neither fog nor cricket come to friend

Is not the night, although I wish it were;

Night gathers like a comforter in bed,

A sibling to the sleepless and the young,

An arm across the shoulder never shed

Till daybreak yawns to fill the smoky lung;

But what we dim the bedroom to forget,

What waits to hold the final door for us—

Its glasses clear and dry, its muzzle wet,

In church someday, at home, or on the bus—

Is pain, which has no dreams, and will not say

The sentence that it carries, or the day.

Lullaby Before Birth

For now you can be happy,

Whatever you are called,

A thing no hands have held,

In darkness, where you wait

And nothing soon will stop you

Unfastening the gate.

Come through and you will find us

And cry until you can’t,

And every day you count

A gift will be a loan,

And all the dark beyond us

Someday will be your own.

So rest a little longer

Where morning isn’t yet,

Though, early born or late,

The light is not to keep.

We grow, but never younger,

And have no time to sleep.