The child slept sweetly every night,
With her curtains opened wide,
The light of the moon,
Lit up her whole room,
As the moonbeams came inside.
Across from her, a painting hung,
Of a lady with spun-gold hair,
Which, if caught just right,
In the soft moonlight,
Presented an angel-like air.
When, in the night, the child awoke,
She'd peek out from 'neath her
cover,
And become beguiled,
By the lady who smiled
Down from the painting above her.
She would watch as the moonbeams
shifted,
When they seemed to glide around the
room
Yet, as if on track,
They always came back,
To the painting from which they had
moved.
They'd focus on the lady's face,
Which was so very angel-like,
That ... Lo and Behold,
A halo of gold,
Began to take shape in the
light.
Then ... another phenomenon,
Which the moonlight so well displayed,
Two golden wings,
Appeared to spring,
Between the lady's shoulder blades.
The child lay still within her
bed,
In awe of all she had seen,
What more did she need,
To help her believe,
The angel was real ... not a
dream.
The child then slept through the rest of the
night,
Until her room was awash with the
dawn,
Just as the day broke,
Her lady was back ... her angel was
gone.