Low in the troubled west, Storm clouds are trailing, And from the woodland nest, Night birds are wailing. Oh, baby, soft and warm, On my breast lying, What do I care for storm, Or daylight dying? What for the night so drear, Waking or sleeping, When thou art folded here Safe in my keeping. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BOUGH OF NONSENSE by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES ROUGE BOUQUET [MARCH 7, 1918] by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER GOBLIN MARKET by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE LION'S SKELETON by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER THE MORAL FABLES: THE FOX, THE WOLF, AND THE CADGER by AESOP ANDRE by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES I'M SADDEST WHEN I SING by THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY |