Poetry Archives

Fair is the castle up on the hill—
      Hushaby, sweet my own!
The night is fair, and the waves are still,
And the wind is singing to you and to me
In this lowly home beside the sea—
      Hushaby, sweet my own!

On yonder hill is store of wealth—
      Hushaby, sweet my own!
And revellers drink to a little one’s health;
But you and I bide night and day
For the other love that has sailed away—
      Hushaby, sweet my own!

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep
      Ghostlike, O my own!
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;
Oh, see them not and make no cry
Till the angels of death have passed us by—
      Hushaby, sweet my own!

Ah, little they reck of you and me—
      Hushaby, sweet my own!
In our lonely home beside the sea;
They seek the castle up on the hill,
And there they will do their ghostly will—
      Hushaby, O my own!

Here by the sea a mother croons
      “Hushaby, sweet my own!”
In yonder castle a mother swoons
While the angels go down to the misty deep,
Bearing a little one fast asleep—
      Hushaby, sweet my own!