(To my sister Susannah, who always sneaks into my room to look at the moon, on her eighth birthday -- Mary)

Sometimes I gaze out my window,
Through lace curtains, frosty and white,
And I smile at the Angel who's making
Bright dreams in the dark, soft night.

Whiter than snow is her skin,
And darker than night is her hair,
But her eyes are the first rays of morning,
That shimmer in glistening air.

She dances on the Moon at midnight,
Crafting her delicate dreams.
She leaves them to ripen on moon-ice,
Star-dust, and shining sun-beams.

As long as they hang there on star-shafts,
Suspended 'twixt Sun and Moon,
They'll season and ripen and blossom,
Like fruit on a hot July noon.

Ripened, she lays them on children,
And they'll dream of the loveliest things,
of ice cream and faeries and swordfights,
And fat little pigs with wings!

But sometimes a goblin or ghoul,
Disguised as a little black cloud,
Steals an unripe dream from the Angel,
Cackling long and loud.

But don't be afraid of these goblin-touched dreams,
Their evil is ugly, but lies,
More true is the beauty and wonder,
of the dreams that still hang in the sky.

And perhaps there's a dream up there waiting,
of sun-fire and star-ice and light,
One day to drift down to your pillow,
And shine in the velvety night