Last night I walked among the lamps that gleamed,
And saw a shadow on a window blind,
A moving shadow; and the picture seemed
To call some scene to mind.
I looked again; a dark form to and fro
Swayed softly as to music full of rest,
Bent low, bent lower: -- Still I did not know.
And then, at last, I guessed.
And through the night came all old memories flocking,
White memories like the snowflakes round me whirled.
"All's well!" I said; "The mothers still sit rocking
The cradles of the world!"