J. C. Squire, ed. A Book of Women’s Verse. 1921.
By Sara Coleridge (18021852)O Sleep, my Babe
O
Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring strays
To drink thy balmy breath,
And sigh one long farewell.
And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore,
Deep murm’ring in reproach,
Thy sad untimely fate.
In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,
O waken’d but to sleep,
Whence it can wake no more!
The tufted beech unfolds in early spring,
All clad in tenderest green,
All of the self-same shape;
Each year sends forth, yet every mother views
Her last not least beloved
Like its dear self alone.
The face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal,
No heart hath e’er conceived
What love that face will bring.
To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath,
As when it deeply sighs
O’er autumn’s latest bloom.