Hush, baby, hush!
Mother’s heart aches for the joy that she takes
In holding you close to her breast!
Perhaps in the yellow moon-cradle
A little cold baby may be;
And the tiny white star-tapers burning
May be sad for some mother to see;—
O night-angel! drop the cloud-curtain
While the gleaming bed’s caught in that tree,
For not even to the rest in the beautiful west