High up on the mountain the wind bloweth wild, There sitteth Our Lady and rocketh her child, Her snow-white hand rocks the cradle high, Nor needs she a cord to rock it by. Come, Sleep draws near, Sleep,-Baby dear! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RETORT by GEORGE POPE MORRIS UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 5. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ROMANCE by WALTER JAMES REDFERN TURNER THE WODDSY ONES by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN TREK FEVER by JULIA FIELD BROWN |