Poems eBook

Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 107 pages of information about Poems.

Veil her face with your tresses bright,
        Little Nell;
Hide that vision out of her sight—­
Those dark dark eyes with their tender light—­
Uplift your pure face, can it be
She will bid farewell to heaven and thee,
        Little Nell? 
No; your mute lips plead with eloquent power,
Her tears fall like a tropic shower;
        All is well,
        Little Nell.

Close your blue eyes now in sleep,
        Little Nell;
Her angel smiles to see her weep;
At morn a ship will cleave the deep,
And one alone will be borne away,
And one will clasp thee close, and pray;
        Oh Little Nell,
Never, never beneath the sun,
Will you dream what you this night have done,
        Done so well,
        Little Nell.


A long, low waste of yellow sand
Lay shining northward far as eye could reach,
Southward a rocky bluff rose high
Broken in wild, fantastic shapes. 
Near by, one jagged rock towered high,
And o’er the waters leaned, like giant grim,
Striving to peer into the mysteries
The ocean whispers of continually,
And covers with her soft, treacherous face. 
For the rest, the sun was sinking low
Like a great golden globe, into the sea;
Above the rock a bird was flying
In dizzy circles, with shrill cries,
And on a plank floated from some wreck,
With shreds of musty seaweed
Clinging to it yet, a woman sat
Holding a child within her arms;
A sweet-faced woman—­looking out to sea
With dark, patient eyes, and singing to the child,
And this the song she in the sunset sang: 

Thine eyes are brown, my beauty, brown and bright,
  Drowned deep in languor now, the angel Sleep
Is clasping thee within her arms so white,
  Bearing thee up the dreamland’s sunny steep. 
             Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thy father’s boat, I see its swaying shroud
  Like a white sea-gull, swinging to and fro
Against the ledges of a crimson cloud,
  A tiny bird with flutt’ring wing of snow. 
             Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thy father toils beyond the harbor bar,
  And, singing at his toil, he thinks of thee;
Lit by the red lamp of the evening star
  Home will he come, will come to thee and me,
             Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

His cabin shall be bright with flowers sweet,
  The table shall be set, the fire shall glow,
We’ll wait within the door, his coming steps to greet,
  And if my eye be sad, he will not know—­
             Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

He will not pause to ponder things so slight,
  He is not one a smile to prize or miss;
Yet he would shield us with a strong arm’s might,
  And he will meet us with a loving kiss—­
             Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Project Gutenberg
Poems from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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