Cradle-Song At Twilight

The child not yet is lulled to rest.
    Too young a nurse, the slender Night
So laxly holds him to her breast
    That throbs with flight.

He plays with her and will not sleep.
    For other playfellows she sighs;
An unmaternal fondness keep
    Her alien eyes.

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell was an English writer, editor, critic, and suffragist, now remembered mainly as a poet. She was born in London, and wrote her first poetry collection, "Preludes" (1875). In addition to her literary works, Meynell was a committed supporter of women's suffrage and worked as an editor for various publications. Her poetry often explored themes of spirituality, nature, and love.

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

Song Of The Day To The Night

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

The Roaring Frost

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

Sonnet--Thoughts In Separation

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

The Fold

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell, Simple Poetry

English

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

Cradle-Song At Twilight

The child not yet is lulled to rest.
    Too young a nurse, the slender Night
So laxly holds him to her breast
    That throbs with flight.

He plays with her and will not sleep.
    For other playfellows she sighs;
An unmaternal fondness keep
    Her alien eyes.

Alice Meynell

The Two Lullabies.

    "Once songs as lullabies to thee I sung,
    To sleep hath sung thee now an angel's tongue."

    From the German of Ruckert.



A lovely babe was lying
    Upon its mother's breast;
And she, with soft, low music.
    Was hushing it to rest.

The song was sweet and gentle,
    And loving in its tone;
And in its touching tenderness
    A mother's love was shown.

And still it floated onward,
    With melody so deep,
Till closed the dark-fringed eyelids,
    The baby was asleep.

And still beside his cradle
    She sang the same low hymn,
Till he smiled, as he was sleeping,
    At angel fancies dim.

Years passed.--The helpless infant
    Was now a happy boy;
And often rang his laughter,...

H. P. Nichols

The Lullaby

When the long day leans to the twilight,
    When the Evening star climbs to the moon,
With a heart that is silently breaking,
    I sit in the gloaming and croon.
I croon a low song for my darling,
    My wee one, my baby, my own;
Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet,
    Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.

Alone with no arms to enfold her,
    Alone with no pillowing breast,
Alone with no hand on her cradle,
    To rock her to soundlier rest.
But each day in the hush of the twilight,
    Is silenced my broken heart's cry;
And I sit where I sat with my darling,
    And sing her the old lullaby.

Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking,
    The sorrow that makes the days long;
As I sit in the twilight there rocking,
    And singing...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

By The Cradle.

The baby Summer lies asleep and dreaming--
Dreaming and blooming like a guarded rose;
And March, a kindly nurse, though rude of seeming,
Is watching by the cradle hung with snows.

Her blowing winds but keep the rockers swinging,
And deepen slumber in the shut blue eyes,
And the shrill cadences of her high singing
Are to the babe but wonted lullabies.

She draws the coverlet white and tucks it trimly,
She folds the little sleeper safe from harm;
Or bends to lift the veil, and, peering inly,
Makes sure it lies all undisturbed and warm.

And so she sits, till in the still, gray dawning
Two fairer nurses come, her place to take,
And smiling, beaming, with no word of warning,
Draw off the quilt, and kiss the babe awake.

Susan Coolidge

Sicilian Lullaby

Hush, little one, and fold your hands;
The sun hath set, the moon is high;
The sea is singing to the sands,
And wakeful posies are beguiled
By many a fairy lullaby:
Hush, little child, my little child!

Dream, little one, and in your dreams
Float upward from this lowly place,--
Float out on mellow, misty streams
To lands where bideth Mary mild,
And let her kiss thy little face,
You little child, my little child!

Sleep, little one, and take thy rest,
With angels bending over thee,--
Sleep sweetly on that Father's breast
Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled;
But stay not there,--come back to me,
O little child, my little child!

Eugene Field

A Thrush Before Dawn

    A voice peals in this end of night
            A phrase of notes resembling stars,
    Single and spiritual notes of light.
            What call they at my window-bars?
                The South, the past, the day to be,
                An ancient infelicity.

    Darkling, deliberate, what sings
            This wonderful one, alone, at peace?
    What wilder things than song, what things
            Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece,
                Dearer than Italy, untold
                Delight, and freshness centuries old?

    And first first-loves, a multitude,
            The exaltation of their pain;
    Ancestral childhood long renewed;
            And midnights of invisible rain;
                And gardens, gardens, night and...

Alice Meynell