A Prayer for My Son

　　Bid a strong ghost stand at the head

　　That my Michael may sleep sound，

　　Nor cry， nor turn in the bed

　　Till his morning meal come round;

　　And may departing twilight keep

　　All dread afar till morning‘s back，

　　That his mother may not lack

　　Her fill of sleep.

　　Bid the ghost have sword in fist：

　　Some there are， for I avow

　　Such devilish things exist，

　　Who have planned his murder， for they know

　　Of some most haughty deed or thought

　　That waits upon his future days，

　　And would through hatred of the bays

　　Bring that to nought.

　　Though You can fashion everything

　　From nothing every day， and teach

　　The morning stars to sing，

　　You have lacked articulate speech

　　To tell Your simplest want， and known，

　　Wailing upon a woman‘s knee，

　　All of that worst ignominy

　　Of flesh and bone;

　　And when through all the town there ran

　　The servants of Your enemy，

　　A woman and a man，

　　Unless the Holy Writings lie，

　　Hurried through the smooth and rough

　　And through the fertile and waste，

　　Protecting， till the danger past，

　　With human love.