Holden Caulfield's sleepy murmurings All night the dream returns, running through the rye; The stars are high accusers and castigate my crime-- My hidden guilt I must acquit, or innocence must die; Starlight on young faces falls, cold as cunning Time; All night I must be running, running through the rye. Children dance at the cliff-edge, sleeping children lightly by; I race to where they're dancing, roll small sleepers from the ledge; Faces without deceit; innocent they dance, innocent dream and lie. --Stalking like an alley cat, I keep my ancient pledge! Ribbons of rye are wet, wet as a weeping eye. Unstained as stars they play, ignorant of their purity; The moon's a rusty lamp hung up for them to sing and dance-- Wave-wild they are rushing, rushing through the rye. Freedom in their limbs so lingers, they see nor gate nor fence; All night I must be running, running through the rye. Sorrow mars them none; no sorrow attends the dancers' eyes; But the shepherd who runs among them is wounded to the core: Wounded I wake in sweat, wounded race and curse--O why Are none saved by my running, no dancer of the starry floor? The ribbons of rye are wet; wet my weeping eyes.