BID a strong ghost stand at the head <br />That my Michael may sleep sound, <br />Nor cry, nor turn in the bed <br />Till his morning meal come round; <br />And may departing twilight keep <br />All dread afar till morning's back. <br />That his mother may not lack <br />Her fill of sleep. <br />Bid the ghost have sword in fist: <br />Some there are, for I avow <br />Such devilish things exist, <br />Who have planned his murder, for they know <br />Of some most haughty deed or thought <br />That waits upon his future days, <br />And would through hatred of the bays <br />Bring that to nought. <br />Though You can fashion everything <br />From nothing every day, and teach <br />The morning stats to sing, <br />You have lacked articulate speech <br />To tell Your simplest want, and known, <br />Wailing upon a woman's knee, <br />All of that worst ignominy <br />Of flesh and bone; <br />And when through all the town there ran <br />The servants of Your enemy, <br />A woman and a man, <br />Unless the Holy Writings lie, <br />Hurried through the smooth and rough <br />And through the fertile and waste, <br />protecting, till the danger past, <br />With human love.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-prayer-for-my-son/
