Look At The Child

Some one can hear with her calming, tame inner voice. Whispered melodies the rustling of leaves as they part, conversations pass within back and forth in the forest. Through the trees and up the hill comes a traveler. Dearest of all you my mother, did you not know, that you cannot control, the impetuous flight or excessive song of the fair weather bird. Fair is his conversation how in the afternoon of the summer, when his household is assembled. When and how the sun looking through the branches it sinks. Pure is her voice outwardly praying between line each passage. And the flower which is not and not is of which it closes. When like the child how everyone dreams and sleeps. Look at the child, how my calmest of mothers and the child is not impatient.