WHERE the golden, glowing Champak-buds are blowing, By the swiftly-flowing streams, Now, when day is dying, There are fairies flying Scattering a cloud of dreams. Slumber-spirits winging Thro' the forest singing, Flutter hither bringing soon, Baby-visions sheeny For my Sunalini ... Hush thee, O my pretty moon! Sweet, the saints shall bless thee ... Hush, mine arms caress thee, Hush, my heart doth press thee, sleep, Till the red dawn dances Breaking thy soft trances, Sleep, my Sunalini, sleep! |