Last night I walked among the lamps that gleamed,
   And saw a shadow on a window blind,
A moving shadow; and the picture seemed
   To call some scene to mind.

I looked again; a dark form to and fro
   Swayed softly as to music full of rest,
Bent low, bent lower: -- Still I did not know.
   And then, at last, I guessed.

And through the night came all old memories flocking,
   White memories like the snowflakes round me whirled.
"All's well!" I said; "The mothers still sit rocking
   The cradles of the world!"