Song For A Babe.
Little babe, while burns the west, Warm thee, warm thee in my breast; While the moon doth shine her best, And the dews distil not. All the land so sad, so fair - Sweet its toils are, blest its care. Child, we may not enter there! Some there are that will not. Fain would I thy margins know, Land of work, and land of snow; Land of life, whose rivers flow On, and on, and stay not. Fain would I thy small limbs fold, While the weary hours are told, Little babe in cradle cold. Some there are that may not.
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"Little babe, while burns the west,..."
"Song For A Babe." is a quintessential example of Jean Ingelow's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...