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.