Now it grows late--the angel has passed by. The day already has begun to die; And hark! the only sound that one may hear Is the swift river's rippling laughter clear. Then lullaby! My son, 'tis I. Now it grows late--and he is sleeping, too. Thy little friend, the fairy bird of blue. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT I LIVE FOR by GEORGE LINNAEUS BANKS THE LONELY STREET by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE ETERNAL JUSTICE by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH POLAND by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN OLD REMEDIES by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN RECOGNITION by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN AT A SEACOAST TAVERN by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |