  There's a beautiful golden cradle That rocks in the rose-red sky; I have seen it there in the evening air Where the bats and beetles fly, With little white clouds for curtains And pillows of fleecy wool, And a dear little bed for the moon-baby's head, So tiny and beautiful. There are tender young stars around it, That wait for their bath of dew In the purple tints that the sun's warm prints Have left on the mountain blue; There are good little gentle planets, That want to be nursed and kissed, And laid to sleep in the ocean deep, Under silvery folds of mist. But the moon-baby first must slumber, For he is their proud young king; So, hand in hand, round his bed they stand, And lullabies low they sing. And the beautiful golden cradle Is rocked by the winds that stray, With pinions soft, from the halls aloft, Where the moon-baby lives to-day. —Pall Mall Gazette. |
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