Lullaby

Arthur Henry Adams was a journalist and author.






DAY has fled to the west afar,
 Where no shadows or sorrows are;
 O'er earth's radiant western rim
 God has gathered the day to him.
 Hush! the river of night is here,
 Flowing silently, cool and clear,
 With its mystical thoughts that throng
 And its silences deep as song.
  Babe of my bosom, sleep;
  Tender, sweet blossom, sleep!
  Hearts may ache
  While the long hours go creeping;
  Hearts may break
  While my baby is sleeping;
  Never wake,
  Though thy mother is weeping;
  Babe of my bosom, sleep!
  Sleep! the silence is all around,
 Save the sighings that are not sound,
 Where the wind in the branches weaves
 Mystic melodies through the leaves;
 Or the far-away murmurings
 Like the stir of an angel's wings.
 Only night is about us now—
 Child, the earth is as tired as thou.
 
  Babe of my bosom, sleep;
  Tender, sweet blossom, sleep!
  Hearts may ache
  While the long hours go creeping,
  Hearts may break
  While my baby is sleeping:
  Never wake.
  Though thy mother is weeping;
  Babe of my bosom, sleep!

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