Hush, lullay.Your treasures allEncrust with rust,Your trinket pleasures fall To dust.Beneath the sapphire arch,Upon the grassy floor,Is nothing more To hold,And play is over-old.Your eyes In sleepy fever gleam,Their lids droop To their dream.You wander late alone,The flesh frets on the bone,Your love fails in your breast,Here is the pillow.Rest.
Lullaby
About the poet
Leonie Adams
1899-1988/AmericanLeonie Adams was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1899. The fifth of six children. She was brought up in a strict home. She was not allowed to ride the subway until she was 18, and then only while her father accompanied her. Leonie graduated f…
View profile & all 19 Poems / StoriesMore from Leonie Adams
Sundown
This is the time lean woods shall spendA steeped-up twilight, and the pale evening drink,
Country Summer
Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,And top with silver petals traced
Magnificat In Little
I was enriched, not casting after marvels,But as one walking in a usual place,
Dirge At The Edge Of Woods
Gold shed upon suckling gold,The time of the bole blackens,
Send Forth The High Falcon
Send forth the high falcon flying after the mindTill it come toppling down from its cold cloud:
