The sky is full of bunny clouds
So soft and fat and white,
I wonder if they're hiding eggs
For stars to find at night.

Because it's Easter Eve, you know,
And there's no reason why
There shouldn't be an Easter hunt
In meadows in the sky.

Three jets are streaking west:
Trails are beginning to fray already:
The third, the last set out,
Climbs parallel a March sky
Paying out a ruled white line:
Skywriting like an incision,
Such surgical precision defines
The mile between it and the others
Who have disappeared leaving behind
Only their now ghostly tracks
That still hold to the height and map

To begin with, the slaves had to wash themselves well,
and the men who had beards had to shave them off;
the men were then given a new suit each,
cheap but clean, and a hat, shirt, and shoes;
and the women were each given a frock of calico
and a handkerchief to tie about their heads.
They were then led by the man selling them into a large room;
the men placed on one side, the women at the other;
the tallest at the head of each row
and then the next in size
and so on to the shortest.

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep,
There outside are all the sheep;
Lambs are penned up, safe from harm.
Sleep my little one, cosy warm.
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep.
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep.

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep,
See the sky is filled with sheep;
Like a flock of clouds drift by.
Led by a moonlit lullaby.
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep.
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep.