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...JOHNNY SPAIN'S WHITE HEIFER by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE IMPORTANCE OF GREEN by JAMES GALVIN A NEW HYMN by KATHERINE MANSFIELD ADELAIDE AND JOHN WILKES BOOTH by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY BAKER, AT NEW YORK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |