Boston Lullaby

Baby's brain is tired of thinking
    On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby's precious eyes are blinking
    With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning
    Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
    How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature
    Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
    Bids my darling close his eyes.

And his pneumogastrics tell him
    Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
    Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,
    Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling, leave Creation
    To its chances for the night.

James Jeffrey Roche

James Jeffrey Roche was an Irish-American poet and journalist born on May 31, 1847, in Mountmellick, Ireland. He immigrated to the United States and became a notable literary figure, editing the literary magazine 'The Pilot' and writing for various publications. His poetry often featured themes of Irish nationalism and American patriotism. Roche passed away on April 3, 1908, leaving behind a legacy of contributions to both poetry and journalism.

James Jeffrey Roche

V-A-S-E, The

James Jeffrey Roche, Simple Poetry

Sailor's Yarn, A

James Jeffrey Roche, Simple Poetry

Lament Of The Scotch-Irish Exile

James Jeffrey Roche, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Lullaby.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Evening is coming, and night is nigh;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be sleeping by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Darkness is creeping along the sky;
Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,
    Slowly the moon comes sailing by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be waking by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Horace Smith

Lullaby.

The maple strews the embers of its leaves
    O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves;
And the moody cricket falters in his cry - Baby-bye! -
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky - Baby-bye! -
    The lid of night is falling o'er the sky!

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup
Of the frosted calla-lily folded up;
And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh - Baby-bye! -
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie - Baby-bye! -
    O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!

Yet, Baby - O my Baby, for your sake
This heart of mine is ever wide awake,
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye - Baby-bye! -
Till your own are wet above me when I die - Baby-bye! -
    Till your own are wet above me when I die.

James Whitcomb Riley

Lullaby Of The Iroquois

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
        Wrapped in your nest,
        Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
        Its hands are your nest;
        Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best, -
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
        Winging to sleep,
        Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
        Shielding their sleep,
        Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep, ...

Emily Pauline Johnson

A Lullaby.

I.

In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleep
The twilight comes like a little goose-girl,
Herding her owls with many"tu-whoos,"
Her little brown owls in the woodland deep,
Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,
And gown of glimmering pearl.

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
This is the road to Rockaby Town.
Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap;
Here you can buy any dream for a crown.

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep,
The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town.
Now you go up, sweet, now you go down,
Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.

II.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wears
A mantle of purple so old, so old!
Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said,

Madison Julius Cawein

Slumber Songs

        I

        Sleep, little eyes
        That brim with childish tears amid thy play,
        Be comforted!    No grief of night can weigh
        Against the joys that throng thy coming day.

        Sleep, little heart!
        There is no place in Slumberland for tears:
        Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears
        And sorrows that will dim the after years.
        Sleep, little heart!


        II

        Ah, little eyes
        Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago,
        That life's storm crushed and left to lie below
        The benediction of the falling snow!

        Sleep, little heart
        That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!
        The years that come and go with silent feet

John McCrae

Slumber Songs

I

Sleep, little eyes
That brim with childish tears amid thy play,
Be comforted!No grief of night can weigh
Against the joys that throng thy coming day.

Sleep, little heart!
There is no place in Slumberland for tears:
Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears
And sorrows that will dim the after years.
Sleep, little heart!


II

Ah, little eyes
Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago,
That life's storm crushed and left to lie below
The benediction of the falling snow!

Sleep, little heart
That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!
The years that come and go with silent feet
Have naught to tell save this, that rest is sweet.
Dear little heart.

John McCrae