Page:The Bird of Time (Naidu).djvu/75



the golden, glowing Champak-buds are blowing, By the swiftly-flowing streams, Now, when day is dying, There are fairies flying Scattering a cloud of dreams.

Slumber-spirits winging Thro' the forest singing, Flutter hither bringing soon, Baby-visions sheeny For my Sunalini. . . Hush thee, O my pretty moon!

Sweet, the saints shall bless thee. . . Hush, mine arms caress thee, 59