Poems (Katharine Elizabeth Howard)/Grand'mère
GRAND'MÈRE
Grand'mère! Grand'mère! Is't you would sleep, Grand'mère?
No, Eunice, 'tis that I would wake—Thousands of morns at dawning-timeThe little wind has wakened meThat wakes the sleeping dawn,—The tender little sigh of joy, the herald of the sun,The soft caressing voice that makes theWorld so dear,—Like all the little sobbing things that make the Earth so dear.What is it calling low and clear? Go, Eunice, go and see.
Grand'mère! Grand'mère! Why are you sad, Grand'mère?
What makes me sad, you ask?Because the little wind I may not hear.Thousands of morns at dawning-time I've listened for the little windThat wakes the sleeping World—the gentle little wind—The little, sobbing, sighing wind that makes the Earth so dear.Go, Eunice, go and see what is it calls so low, so clear.What is it calls? It seems to call for me.
Grand'mère! Grand'mère! I am afraid,The candle flares so strange,—I am afraid, Grand'mère!
What is it, Eunice? Go and see what is it calls so clear.Go, Eunice, go and see,—go open wide the door and have no fear;It is the little wind of dawn that makes the World so dear,—So soft, so clear, so well I hear—. The little wind has wakened me.
Grand'mère! Grand'mère!