Drying Their Wings

 What the Carpenter Said

THE moon's a cottage with a door.
 
Some folks can see it plain.
 
Look, you may catch a glint of light, 
A sparkle through the pane, 
Showing the place is brighter still 
Within, though bright without.
 
There, at a cosy open fire 
Strange babes are grouped about.
 
The children of the wind and tide-- 
The urchins of the sky, 
Drying their wings from storms and things 
So they again can fly.

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