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Drying Their Wings
What the Carpenter Said to the Child The moon's a cottage with a door- Some folk 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.