Only a child would be afraid

When suddenly birds wheel and fling,

And scatter themselves at his feet

With a rush of wing.

Who but a child alone at play,

When birds darken his busy day,

Would start with fear?

What cry, but the cry of a child

At heaven gone wild,

Would we hear?

If the blossoming moon

Were plucked like a flower,

And scattered over the town -

Its pale great petals fluttering down

In wind from the outer dark -

What panic sheer and stark!

What yell of terror-struck words!

But only a child at play

Could be frightened by birds.