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...CAROL: NEW STYLE by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CAPPER KAPLINSKI AT THE NORTH SIDE CUE CLUB by HAYDEN CARRUTH EPITAPH FOR A SOLDIER by DAVID IGNATOW SOUVENIR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON NEBUCHADNEZZAR: OR EATING GRASS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE ROOM OF MIRRORS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |