I heard an old, familiar air
Strummed idly by a careless hand,
Yet in the melody were rare,
Sweet echoings from childhood land.
The well-remembered mother touch,
The wise denials and consents,
The trivial sorrows that were much,
Small pleasures that were large events;
The fancies, dreams, strange wonderings,
The daily problems unexplained,
Momentous as the cares of kings
That on unhappy thrones have reigned,
Came back with each unstudied tone;
And came that song remembered best,
Which, with a sweetness all its own,
Once lulled the play-worn child to rest.
And there, secure as Tarik's height,
He slumbered, shielded from alarms,
Safe from the mystery of night,
Close folded in the moth...