Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us And black are the waters that sparkled so green. The moon, O'er the combers, looks downward to find us At rest in the hollows that rustle between. Where billow meets billow, there soft by the pillow. Oh, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, no shark shall overtake thee Asleep in the storm of slow-swinging seas.
Return to the Rudyard Kipling library , or . . . Read the next poem; Sepulchral