Song for an Infant Son

O little son, asleep within my arms,

I think I hear the carillons of peace

Re-echoing to still the war-alarms

And bring, at last, the chrism of release.

O darling boy, this prodigal, the earth,

Long in travail, will joy in giving birth

To peaceful giants who on living sod

Will build a New Acropolis to God.

O little man-child, see the rifted night!

Come, chosen builder, firmly grasp the rod.

Awake, my son, behold the growing light!