THE UNHEEDED PAGEANT¹

    AH, who was it coloured that little frock, my child, and covered your sweet limbs with that little red tunic²？

    You have come out in the morning to play in the courtyard, tottering³ and tumbling as you run.

    But who was it coloured that little frock, my child？

    What is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud？

    Mother smiles at you standing⁴ on the threshold.

    She claps her hands and her bracelets⁵ jingle⁶, and you dance with your bamboo stick in your hand like a tiny little shepherd.

    But what is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud？

    O beggar, what do you beg for, clinging to your mother's neck with both your hands？

    O greedy heart, shall I pluck the world like a fruit from the sky to place it on your little rosy⁷ palm？

    O beggar, what are you begging for？

    The wind carries away in glee the tinkling⁸ of your anklet bells.

    The sun smiles and watches your toilet. The sky watches over you when you sleep in your mother's arms, and the morning comes tiptoe to your bed and kisses your eyes.

    The wind carries away in glee the tinkling of your anklet bells.

    The fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying through the twilight⁹ sky.

    The world-mother keeps her seat by you in your mother's heart.

    He who plays his music to the stars is standing at your window with his flute¹⁰.

    And the fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying through the twilight sky.