She croons a soft, sweet lullaby
as golden traces light the sky;
her sweet-smelling babe hugged to her breast,
heedless of needing, herself, some rest.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
wind of the western sea,
Gently pacing the bare board floor,
she stops to listen, then paces some more.
At the window she looks down the old dusty track,
while rhythmically stroking her baby’s back.
Low, low, breathe and blow,
wind of the western sea.
She thinks of her husband, slain in war,
the hurt very fresh she cannot ignore.
Where could she turn now? On whom could she call?
Her parents were dead, she the last of them all.
Over the rolling waters go,
come from the dying moon, and blow,
As slow the sun crests a nearby hill,
a breeze up the gully ushers a chill.
She pulls the belt tight on her tattered gown;
in a wooden box lays her sweet babe down.
blow him again to me;
She kneels by the box and, clasping her hands,
turns first to the One who understands.
‘Father”, she whispers, “I leave it with You;
I can’t manage alone, don’t know what to do.”
while my little one, while my pretty one...
Way beyond weary, she crawls to her bed,
no visions of sugarplums invading her head;
but in peace and assurance, she slumbers with ease
as the west wind flirtatiously, plays amongst trees.
When, in faith, one is trusting and truly believes,
a measure of justice and blessing receives.
Sweet and Low...Alfred Lord Tennyson
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