Drying Their Wings

What the Carpenter

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.