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Japanese lullaby

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,--
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging--
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

Away out yonder I see a star,--
Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling--
Calling and tinkling the night along.

In through the window a moonbeam comes,--
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping--
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"

Up from the sea there floats the sob
Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning--
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,--
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging--
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.

poem by Eugene Field
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The Dilettante And The Critic

A BOY a pigeon once possess'd,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;
He loved it well, and in boyish sport
Its food to take from his mouth he taught,
And in his pigeon he took such pride,
That his joy to others he needs must confide.

An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell,
Talkative, clever, and learned as well;
The boy his society used to prize,
Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.

"My friend the fox my pigeon must see
He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he
"Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair!
His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!"

"Let's see!"--The boy gave it.--"'Tis really not bad;
And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.
The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!"
So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.

The boy screamed.--"Thou must now stronger pinions supply,
Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly."--
Soon 'twas stripp'd--oh, the villain!--and torn all to pieces.
The boy was heart-broken,--and so my tale ceases.

He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case,
Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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I Care

She has gone, leaving me behind
As I was never there before;
The feelings of mine,
As in so many words were never spoken;
I wander in the abyss of my mind
Without shore,
In search of the road that defines
Why a heart is broken?

In that loneliness, draws attention
An unknown creeper…
The swinging hands to seek support
Push through air a bit deeper.

While I put its hands around the rail,
"Dear", softly I say, "I am here."
In a depressing afternoon from my balcony
Clapping their wings when the pigeon couple flies away,
See two lives in the shells hang at the edge of a window ledge
Are about to cause dismay.

While I push them back in the nest with care
I murmur, "I am here."
Suddenly the darkness descends on earth
Thundering storm brings in rain
Hearing a stray puppy's cry
I walk out on the passing lane.

As it shivers without a shelter in absolute despair
I pick up the whelp in my arm to say, I care.
The pain within me seems to have spread its wings
All over the world, in every being.
I walk across to all to wipe the tears
And pull them in close to my heart to say,
I care.

poem by Kingshuk Chakraborty
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Lullaby of the iroquois

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
Wrapped in your nest,
Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
Its hands are your nest;
Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
Winging to sleep,
Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
Shielding their sleep,
Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Norse lullaby

The sky is dark and the hills are white
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;"
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
"Sleep, little one, sleep."

On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing,
And only the vine can hear her sing:
"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
What shall you fear when I am here?
Sleep, little one, sleep."

The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The tree may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best,--
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, anext my heart
Sleep, little one, sleep.

poem by Eugene Field
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Wings In The Night

Now in the soft spring midnight
There's rush of wings and whirr,
Birds flying softly, swiftly;
The night's a-flutter, a-stir.

Home by the bitter seas,
They have sped home together.
So glad to be coming home
To the grey hills, the grey weather.

Calling and calling softly
One lights by the window-pane:
The rook, weary with building,
Turns to his sleep again.

Ere ever the moor-hens wake
And the wild duck come in,
The birds are about the house
With a long call and thin.

They have wakened the wood-pigeon
To make her plaintive moan,
The wood-pigeon lamenting
For sorrows not her own.

Oh, they are never birds,
But souls of men on the wind,
Seeking the mother's breast,
The heart that is soft and kind.

Souls of the Irish dead,
Flown from the fields of slaughter,
Home to the mother's arms
Over the wild grey water.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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That Pigeon

Tony just brought
a pigeon
in his house
put it in a cage and
feed it
some grains
beside a bowl of
water

Every night since then
i cannot sleep
hearing always the sound
of a sobbing woman
grieving

i keep telling myself
that it is just
a pigeon temporarily
adopting to a momentary loss
of her freedom

Horrible nights
lots of horrible nights
the sounds of groaning griefs
are penetrating the walls of my mind

until one day
the pigeon died and Tony buried it
beside his house
now the pebbles are giving me
the silence of the dead
the air is so quiet
looking at an empty cage

somehow i feel guilty
not about the pigeon but about Tony
well, the story is quite long
what business do i have there?
last night i was thinking
what if it was Tony who died
and the pigeon went out of that cage
and buried him there
beside that lonely house?
shall i not hear the grieving sounds of
that pigeon again?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The singing in god's acre

Out yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies,
Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies.
Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low,
As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,--

"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd guardeth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,
Sleep, oh, sleep!"

The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight,
And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night;
And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong
The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,--

"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
He that guardeth His flock the best
Hath folded them to His loving breast;
So sleep ye now, and take your rest,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"

From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song,
And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along;
So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify,
God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,--

"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"

poem by Eugene Field
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Roses and Dreams

Swinging from a tree in the middle of the sky
Catching a star
Holding it tight
Kicking at clouds passing far below
A rose clutched in my hand
The moon a reflection of my happiness
Letting my balloon float away
Dropping my rose
Swinging out
Like a shooting star
Glowing in the night
My head in the clouds
Dreaming my dreams
Falling with my rose
Falling with the rain
Flapping my wings and rising into the air
Swooping away holding my rose
Bursting through the clouds
Breaking up the rainbow
Settling on my swing
In the middle of the sky

poem by Tsunami HiroshiSu
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Orkney Lullaby

A moonbeam floateth from the skies,
Whispering, "Heigho, my dearie!
I would spin a web before your eyes,--
A beautiful web of silver light,
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway,
And the snow-white lambkins are at play,--
Heigho, my dearie!"

A brownie stealeth from the vine
Singing, "Heigho, my dearie!
And will you hear this song of mine,--
A song of the land of murk and mist
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?
Then let the moonbeam's web of light
Be spun before thee silvery white,
And I shall sing the livelong night,--
Heigho, my dearie!"

The night wind speedeth from the sea,
Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie!
I bring a mariner's prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies;
But I shall rock thee to and fro,
Kissing the brow he loveth so,
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow,--
Heigho, my dearie!"

poem by Eugene Field
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The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit

A BROADSIDE DISTRIBUTED IN SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS

Censers are swinging,
Over the town;
Censers are swinging,
Look overhead!
Censers are swinging,
Heaven comes down.
City, dead city,
Awake from the dead!

Censers, tremendous,
Gleam overhead.
Wind-harps are ringing,
Wind-harps unseen—
Calling and calling:—
"Wake from the dead.
Rise, little city,
Shine like a queen."

Soldiers of Christ
For battle grow keen.
Heaven-sent winds
Haunt alley and lane.
Singing of life
In town-meadows green
After the toil
And battle and pain.

Incense is pouring
Like the spring rain
Down on the mob
That moil through the street.
Blessed are they
Who behold it and gain
Power made more mighty
Thro' every defeat.

Builders, toil on.
Make all complete.
Make Springfield wonderful.
Make her renown
Worthy this day,
Till, at God's feet,
Tranced, saved forever,
Waits the white town.

Censers are swinging
Over the town,
Censers gigantic!
Look overhead!
Hear the winds singing:—
"Heaven comes down.
City, dead city,
Awake from the dead."

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Phantom Footsteps

Childish foosteps, just behind her,
Softly patter on the green.
Back she glances; tears may blind her,
But no little one is seen.
Blanched, as by an ill appalling,
Home in terror hastens she,
While a baby voice is calling,
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

Phantom footsteps! hear them
falling (falling, falling),
falling (falling, falling)
Now, wherever she may be!
(hear footsteps falling!)
While a baby voice is
call- (calling, calling,)
-ing, (calling, calling,)
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

Sobbing still, but never lagging,
Soon she enters the gate,
And before her, on the flagging,
Sees the symbols of her fate:
Tiny shoeprints, plainly speaking
Of the salt and foamy sea.
Hark! was that the doorhinge creaking?
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

Half her night is spent in weeping,
Ere she can forget her cares:
Is there not an infant creeping--
Creeping slowly up the stairs?
Venturing thither in her yearning,
Only shadows can she see;
But she hears the cry while turning,
"Mother! mother! wait for me."

poem by Henry Clay Work
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When I was a Bird

I climbed up the karaka tree
Into a nest all made of leaves
But soft as feathers.
I made up a song that went on singing all by itself
And hadn't any words, but got sad at the end.
There were daisies in the grass under the tree.
I said just to try them:
"I'll bite off your heads and give them to my little
children to eat."
But they didn't believe I was a bird;
They stayed quite open.
The sky was like a blue nest with white feathers
And the sun was the mother bird keeping it warm.
That's what my song said: though it hadn't any words.
Little Brother came up the patch, wheeling his barrow.
I made my dress into wings and kept very quiet.
Then when he was quite near I said: "Sweet, sweet!"
For a moment he looked quite startled;
Then he said: "Pooh, you're not a bird; I can see
your legs."
But the daisies didn't really matter,
And Little Brother didn't really matter;
I felt just like a bird.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Little Pearl And Lily's Lullaby

(Baby crying)
When I heard the news,
There'll be baby shoes,
Waiting and wondering pink or blue,
Either gonna be a little me or you,
If I can see inside heaven knows we've tried,
Looking though the belly on a TV screen,
Don't have to tell me what her heartbeat means.
Chorus:
There's only one other who can love this girl like me
The mother of the finest little pearl in any sea.
April shower brings, lots of tiny things,
Lily's getting bigger every single day,
Gonna paint these Flowers, gonna wait 'til May,
Had to dry my eyes, writing lullaby's
I'm gonna sing her every song I know
Got to get ready for a whole new show.
'Cause I know ole father time's not wasting me,
With a brand new tiny little branch on the family tree.
--- Instrumental ---
Barely time to choose, all the Baby shoes,
No more wondering pink or blue,
She gonna be a little me and you,
Now I have her mind full of nursery rhymes,
Old Mother Goose, Little Bo Peep
Call Dr. Seuss to put her right to sleep.
Chorus:
There's only one other who can love this girl like me
The mother of the finest little pearl in any sea.
That is what she is to me.
(Baby giggles)
Go to sleep my darling, sandman is calling,
Where the stars are gleaming, you will be dreaming
Go to sleep my darling, sandman is calling,
We will be waiting for your love and adore you
Go to sleep my darling, sandman is calling,
Where the angels guide you to the dreams inside you
Go to sleep my darling, sandman is calling,
Holding all your moonbeam, join me in my dreams...
--- Instrumental to fade ---

song performed by by Clint Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pedlar

FLY, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly!
And see if you can find him;
He has blue eyes--you'll know him by,--
He wears a pack behind him.
He's gone away--ah! many a mile
Because he could not please me,
And, oh! 'twill be a weary while
Ere next he comes to tease me.

He carries wares of every kind,
Fine ribbons, silks, and laces,
Bargains to rhyme with every mind,
And hues to suit all faces.
He has gold rings and pretty things
That other maids will throng for,
Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings,
And fly to him I long for.

Tell him to turn and come again,
For once I sent him packing;
He offered me a bargain then,
But wit and price were lacking.
I have the price he asked of me,
The wit that will not weigh it;
Ah! bid him come again and see
How gladly I will pay it.

A heart of gold he offered me
As 'twere a penny fairing,
And only asked a worthless fee,
This heavy heart I'm wearing.
I would not then--now long and drear
The white way winds behind him;
Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear,
But you will never find him!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Christmas Lullabay

A Christmas Lullaby
Sleep, baby, sleep! The Mother
sings:
Heaven's angels kneel and fold
their wings.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
With swathes of scented hay Thy
bed
By Mary's hand at eve was
spread.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
At midnight came the shepherds,
they
Whom seraphs wakened by the
way.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
And three kings from the East
afar,
Ere dawn came, guided by the
star.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
They brought Thee gifts of gold
and gems,
Pure orient pearls, rich diadems.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thou who liest slumbering there,
Art King of Kings, earth, ocean,
air.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds
sing:
Through heaven, through earth,
hosannas ring.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

poem by Akingbehin Daniel Murphy
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To One Dead

A blackbird singing
On a moss-upholstered stone,
Bluebells swinging,
Shadows wildly blown,
A song in the wood,
A ship on the sea.
The song was for you
and the ship was for me.

A blackbird singing
I hear in my troubled mind,
Bluebells swinging,
I see in a distant wind.
But sorrow and silence,
Are the wood's threnody,
The silence for you
and the sorrow for me.

poem by Francis Ledwidge
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Pigeons

There are many pigeons in the Cascais evening park and
see one I remember, the one that trips stylishly around
looking for crumbs, it looks at me, to see if I´m eating.
In May it was a baby on my terrace trying out its wings,
one day it succeeded and flew off.
A pigeon doesn’t remember its childhood, so it doesn’t
has the burden of remembering infancy, blames no one
when things go wrong. Two women come and sit on my
bench, talk about offspring who will not listen; pity they
have not understood, like a pigeon mother, to let go.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The song of luddy-dud

A sunbeam comes a-creeping
Into my dear one's nest,
And sings to our babe a-sleeping
The song that I love the best:
"'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning -
'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;
And all day long
'T is the same sweet song
Of that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite,
Luddy-Dud."

The bird to the tossing clover,
The bee to the swaying bud,
Keep singing that sweet song over
Of wee little Luddy-Dud.
"'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning -
'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;
And all day long
'T is the same dear song
Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite,
Luddy-Dud."

poem by Eugene Field
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Dont Say No

(a. bell / v. clarke)
Collecting conversation from the silence of the room.
Misguided information, telling lies will never do.
No better known occasion for improving the score.
Paid my contribution, wont play this game no more.
Im done with hesitation, got no stationary blues.
Gonna use my imagination like the way I used to do.
Headlong into passion, a sensational move.
Made the right connection, Im falling for the groove.
Im swinging high and Im swinging low,
And Im getting down and Im to and fro.
And thats the way the party goes.
Im making no mistaking, its a true live picture show.
So forget the final curtain and forget the bit of blow.
Got a lot of combination, its a fusion of love.
Mention intervention been bitten by the blow.
Im swinging high and Im swinging low,
And Im getting down and Im to and fro.
And thats the way the party goes.
Im done with hesitation, got no stationary blues.
Gonna use my imagination like the way I used to do.
Headlong into passion, a sensational move.
Made the right connection, Im falling for the groove.
Im swinging high and Im swinging low,
And Im getting down and Im to and fro.
Aint that the way the party goes?
Im swinging high and Im swinging low,
And Im getting down and Im to and fro.
And thats the way the party goes.
And thats the way the party goes.
And thats the way the party goes.

song performed by by Erasure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Divine Lullaby

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord;
I hear it by the stormy sea
When winter nights are black and wild,
And when, affright, I call to Thee;
It calms my fears and whispers me,
"Sleep well, my child."

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
In singing winds, in falling snow,
The curfew chimes, the midnight bell.
"Sleep well, my child," it murmurs low;
"The guardian angels come and go,--
O child, sleep well!"

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
Ay, though the singing winds be stilled,
Though hushed the tumult of the deep,
My fainting heart with anguish chilled
By Thy assuring tone is thrilled,--
"Fear not, and sleep!"

Speak on--speak on, dear Lord!
And when the last dread night is near,
With doubts and fears and terrors wild,
Oh, let my soul expiring hear
Only these words of heavenly cheer,
"Sleep well, my child!"

poem by Eugene Field
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