Cobwebs hold the stars aloft,
as spiders weave for children soft
the dreams which keep away their fear
for daylight’s drawing ever near.

Slumber gives to those who lie,
a drop of healing in their eye.
On children’s lips where weavers trod,
Mother, is the word for God.

Homeless men find hearth in dream,
and princes in their sleep may scream.
The beggar then may wear a crown,
and royalty in nightmares drown.

The spiders net the sky with thread,
that draws to it small children’s dread.
Their teardrops cling to this small line,
to us they are but stars that shine.

Sing for me,