Little babe, while burns the west, Warm thee, warm thee, in my breast; While the moon doth shine her best, And the dews distil not. All the land so sad, so fair-- Sweet its toils are, blest its care. Child, we may not enter there! Some there are that will not. Fain would I thy margins know, Land of work, and land of snow; Land of life, whose rivers flow On, and on, and stay not. Fain would I thy small limbs fold, While the weary hours are told, Little babe in cradle cold. Some there are that may not. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WIDOW; SAPPHICS by ROBERT SOUTHEY SYMPATHY by HENRY DAVID THOREAU AMERICAN THEMES FOR A GILBERT by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS A COWBOY TOAST by JAMES BARTON ADAMS TOM JONES by JAMES HAY BEATTIE OLD REMEDIES by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |