Poetry Archives

The night winds howled—the billows dashed
  Against the tossing chest;
And Danae to her broken heart
  Her slumbering infant pressed.

“My little child”—in tears she said—
  “To wake and weep is mine,
But thou canst sleep—thou dost not know
  Thy mother’s lot, and thine.

“The moon is up, the moonbeams smile—
  They tremble on the main;
But dark, within my floating cell,
  To me they smile in vain.

“Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,
  Thy clustering locks are dry,
Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,
  Nor breakers booming high.

“As o’er thy sweet unconscious face
  A mournful watch I keep,
I think, didst thou but know thy fate,
  How thou wouldst also weep.

“Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds
  That vex the restless brine—
When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed
  As peacefully as thine!”