Hazel Hall

A Child Is Lost

Perhaps the night wind will be tender
And will minister to her,       
And the moon will come to send her
Light to see a twisted fir.
(The clouds are thick and do not stir.)
Stars may strew the black road over,
Tinting it bit by darling bit.
(The skies are low and still unlit.)
And the wild dark may but love her
Who knows no ill of it.