One night I heard a small, weak voice,
   Born into a silent, sleeping world:
Was it a new-born baby, or
   A new-born lamb, a minute old?

But when I saw the sky was one
   Big loaded orchard of bright lights,
I almost cried like that young child,
   For Earth, and all her little mites.

The silence of those mighty heavens,
   That infant's cry, so weak in power,
Made me half wish that Day had brought
   Her sparrow with his common flower.