Cradle-Songs of Goldilocks
Who will share his life, his name.
When she's found, send in
Tidings with a din.
Blow your fairy horn with power,
Clarion in the morning hour.
Wake then, guardian of my bower,
Seize the blue-bell stalks and swing
Until every one shall ring.
When she's found, send in
Tidings with a din.
Blow your fairy horn with power,
Clarion in the morning hour.
Wake then, guardian of my bower,
Seize the blue-bell stalks and swing
Until every one shall ring.
III.
Sift the golden barley.
Many a grain is not of gold,
But the sieve that strains them
Always then retains them.
Soon we've half the sack will hold.
But to whom, now, grant it?
Grain is for the miller's box.
Nay, but I will plant it,
And my garden 's Goldilocks.
Sift the golden barley.
Many a grain is not of gold,
But the sieve that strains them
Always then retains them.
Soon we've half the sack will hold.
But to whom, now, grant it?
Grain is for the miller's box.
Nay, but I will plant it,
And my garden 's Goldilocks.
Sift the golden barley.
When the seed is springing,
Dream-sylphs in the moonlight fair,
To my garden winging,
Pray as at an altar there.
Soon the leaves are rifted
By a soldier's leveled spear,
Golden on his lifted
Finger starry gleams appear.
When the seed is springing,
Dream-sylphs in the moonlight fair,
To my garden winging,
Pray as at an altar there.
Soon the leaves are rifted
By a soldier's leveled spear,
Golden on his lifted
Finger starry gleams appear.
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