 | Poems |  |
181
THE LULLABY.
I saw two children hushed to death,
In lap of One with silver wings,
Holding a lute, whose latest breath
Still lingered on the trembling strings.
In lap of One with silver wings,
Holding a lute, whose latest breath
Still lingered on the trembling strings.
Her face was very pale and fair,
And from her hooded eyes was shed
A love celestial, and her hair
Was like a crown around her head.
And from her hooded eyes was shed
A love celestial, and her hair
Was like a crown around her head.
No smallest wave will she displace
That fills the lute's faint-ebbing strain;
The notes seem echoed from her face,
And echoed back from their's again.
That fills the lute's faint-ebbing strain;
The notes seem echoed from her face,
And echoed back from their's again.
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