Then the snowdrop sang a lullaby about the moss that loved the violet.
Down the room a low, mournful wail, almost a lullaby, went on and ceased not.
By that time the sounds of the tempest had become a lullaby to me.
So she sang another, a lullaby, that sank to its finish in flattering silence.
Oh, this capital knew the Dead March in Saul as a child knows his lullaby!