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CRADLE-TIME.
CRADLE-TIME.
HE glory of the sunset fades awayFrom the tall church-spires of the darkening town,
And on the waters of the western bay
The orange tints are sobering to brown.
This is the hour when the fond mother folds
Her infant closely to her pillowing breast,
And, kissing oft the little hand she holds,
Sings dreamily, and lulls her babe to rest.
Her infant closely to her pillowing breast,
And, kissing oft the little hand she holds,
Sings dreamily, and lulls her babe to rest.
For me, I hold all Fate has left to me,—
A little golden ripple of fair hair;—
I lay it on my bosom tenderly,
And try to think my baby nestles there.
A little golden ripple of fair hair;—
I lay it on my bosom tenderly,
And try to think my baby nestles there.
O golden hair! Where is the shining head,
The baby brow which once you used to crown?
The tender eyes, with all their love unsaid,
Into whose depths my yearning soul looked down?
The baby brow which once you used to crown?
The tender eyes, with all their love unsaid,
Into whose depths my yearning soul looked down?
