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 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
AT HER BEDSIDE.
Fly, little bird, fly
Close to the sick woman's bed!
Tell her of streams running by,
Of branches that wave overhead;
When shut is the weary one's eye,
Wake her soul to your music, instead!
Close to the sick woman's bed!
Tell her of streams running by,
Of branches that wave overhead;
When shut is the weary one's eye,
Wake her soul to your music, instead!
Sing, little bird, sing
Through the thin cloud of her dreams!
Breezes and wild-flowers bring,
Till the heart of the slumberer seems
To the beautiful woods taking wing,
To the glen where the rivulet gleams.
Through the thin cloud of her dreams!
Breezes and wild-flowers bring,
Till the heart of the slumberer seems
To the beautiful woods taking wing,
To the glen where the rivulet gleams.
Wait, little bird, wait
Till her sorrowful burden of pain
Is buried at sleep's summer gate:
Unwind from the quiet some strain,
A lovely new world to create;
Then sing her to health again!
Till her sorrowful burden of pain
Is buried at sleep's summer gate:
Unwind from the quiet some strain,
A lovely new world to create;
Then sing her to health again!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |