Oh, many's the time in the evening When the light has fled o'er the sea, That I dream alone in the gloaming Of the joys that are not for me; And oft in my sorrowful bosom Swells up the mother-love flame, And I clasp with arms that are trembling My child that never came; Singing--"Hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Nestle thee deeper in mother's breast, Oh, hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Tenderest angels will guard thy rest." The candles far down in the city Shine out thro' the purplish gray, And the stars come out in the heavens And glimmer across the bay; The murmuring waves steal homeward From the ocean's larger blue; As I dream alone in the gloaming Of the child that I never knew; Singing--"Hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Nestle thee deeper in mother's breast, Oh, hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Tenderest angels will guard thy rest." Oh, the little warm cheek in my bosom, Oh, the little wet lips at my breast, Oh, the clinging, wee, satiny fingers To my longing lips that are pressed! There was never a song that was sweeter, Tho' its singer be laureled with fame; Than the song that I sing in the gloaming To the child that never came; "Oh, hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Nestle thee deeper in mother's breast, Oh, hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Tenderest angels will guard thy rest." The hours swim on to the midnight, The moon looks over the hill, And the u-lu-lu of the night owl Sinks mournfully and shrill; The solitude aches with rapture, And my heart with the mother-love flame As I sing alone in the gloaming To the child that never came. "Oh, hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Nestle thee deeper in mother's breast, Oh, hush thee--hush thee--hush-a-by, darling, Tenderest angels will guard thy rest." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER DEAR ELIZABETH: (FOR ELIZABETH DIFIORE) by KAREN SWENSON PORPHYRIA'S LOVER by ROBERT BROWNING TWILIGHT AT THE HEIGHTS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER INDIAN NAMES by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY I WOULD NOT LIFT THY VEIL by A. LOUISE ASHWORTH PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY OF HENRY THE EIGHTH by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |