The Watchers
THE cottages all lie asleep;
The sheep and lambs are folded in
Winged sentinels the vale will keep
Until the hours of life begin.
The children with their prayers all said
Sleep until cockcrow shall awake
The gardens in their gold and red
And robins in the bush and brake.
The fields of harvest golden-white,
The fields of pasture rich and green,
Sleep on nor fear the kindly night,
The watching mountains set between.
The river sings its sleepy song,
Nought stirs the wakeful owl beside:
Our peace is builded sure and strong
No evil beast can creep inside.
St Patrick and St Brigid hold
The vale its little houses all,
While men-at-arms in white and gold
Glide swiftly by the outer wall.
St Brendan and St Kevin pluck
The robes of God that He may hear-
And Colum: 'Keep the Irish flock
So that no shame or sin come near.'
What news of Belgian folk to-day?
How fare the village and the town?
O Belgium's all on fire they say,
And all her towers are toppling down.
What are her angels doing then,
And are the Belgian saints asleep,
That in this night of dule and pain
The Belgians mourn, the Belgians weep?
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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The Sleep Of Spring
O for that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!--
The babe upon its mother's breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain--
When shall I know that sleep again?
When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother's breast
Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest--
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?
The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e'en--
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?
I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play;
Twas pleasure een to weep;
Twas joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?
poem by John Clare
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As i lay asleep......
Soft cushion
Flavoured incense
I lay asleep
Night
Day
All the same
I lay asleep
Hurted deep
Women weep
I lay asleep
I lay asleep
Amidst the noise
Mortal body
Left with no choice
Drones of people
Flock around
Curious for my name
In moments of despair
Feeling of fame
Its all over
Forget me now
Lay me lower
My house-the ground
And let me sleep
Let me sleep
Sleep
Sleep, forever........
-Royston Serrao
poem by Royston Serrao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Im Awake Now
Ive been where the river ran
Im drownin in a sunless sea
Sleep has helped me find my end
You promised me youd set me free
Dont fall asleep to dream
A banshees at my window pane
Theres an angel at my feet
Dont fall asleep to dream
Im awake now
(you cant touch me, I wont sleep no more)
Awake now
In the corner of my mind
Where he sits and waits for me
Theres a wall of confusion building
And the sky begins to bleed on me
Dont fall asleep to dream
Im looking for a way out now
Peace of mind is all I need
Dont fall asleep to dream
Im awake now
(you cant touch me, I wont sleep no more)
Awake now
(you cant touch me, I wont sleep no more)
Awake now
(you cant touch me, I wont sleep no more)
Awake now
Awake now
Awake now
Awake now
Awake now
song performed by by Goo Goo Dolls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The well [Fântâna]
I
I know a small well in the shadowy vale
A chirping gold starling has urged me to sleep
Beneath the high poplars, with green foliage veil,
Forgetting the city where my sigh was deep.
I know a small well in the shadowy vale
A blackbird I talked to down there, for it pried,
When learned that I suffered and heard my sad wail,
Laughed loudly and deeply, but I only sighed...
I know a small well in the shadowy vale
II
In foliage lies hidden the white-looking vale
And what have I wanted in this passing world?
I pity myself, the sad folks who prevail...
O, you, finely chirping and nice golden bird
In foliage lies hidden the white-looking vale
Its spring in the morning is kissed by the sky,
With it flows my fate, beginning to fail,
O, blackbird whose laughter is not gonna die!
The small hidden well turns white in the vale.
poem by Alexandru Macedonski, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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The Shepherd Boy
WHEN the red moon hangs over the fold,
And the cypress shadow is rimmed with gold,
O little sheep, I have laid me low,
My face against the old earth's face,
Where one by one the white moths go,
And the brown bee has his sleeping place.
And then I have whispered, Mother, hear,
For the owls are awake and the night is near,
And whether I lay me near or far
No lip shall kiss me,
No eye shall miss me,
Saving the eye of a cold white star.
And the old brown woman answers mild,
Rest you safe on my heart, O child.
Many a shepherd, many a king,
I fold them safe from their sorrowing.
Gwenever's heart is bound with dust,
Tristram dreams of the dappled doe,
But the bugle moulders, the blade is rust;
Stilled are the trumpets of Jericho,
And the tired men sleep by the walls of Troy.
Little and lonely,
Knowing me only,
Shall I not comfort you, shepherd-boy?
When the wind wakes in the apple-tree,
And the shy hare feeds on the wild fern stem,
I say my prayers to the Trinity,–
The prayers that are three and the charms that are seven
To the angels guarding the towers of heaven,–
And I lay my head on her raiment's hem,
Where the young grass darkens the strawberry star,
Where the iris buds and the bellworts are.
All night I hear her breath go by
Under the arch of the empty sky.
All night her heart beats under my head,
And I lie as still as the ancient dead,
Warm as the young lambs there with the sheep.
I and no other
Close to my Mother,
Fold my hands in her hands, and sleep.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Night
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen, they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold,
Saying: ‘Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.
‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For, wash'd in life’s river
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.’
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Fourth Shepherd
(For Thomas Walsh)
I
On nights like this the huddled sheep
Are like white clouds upon the grass,
And merry herdsmen guard their sleep
And chat and watch the big stars pass.
It is a pleasant thing to lie
Upon the meadow on the hill
With kindly fellowship near by
Of sheep and men of gentle will.
I lean upon my broken crook
And dream of sheep and grass and men --
O shameful eyes that cannot look
On any honest thing again!
On bloody feet I clambered down
And fled the wages of my sin,
I am the leavings of the town,
And meanly serve its meanest inn.
I tramp the courtyard stones in grief,
While sleep takes man and beast to her.
And every cloud is calling "Thief!"
And every star calls "Murderer!"
II
The hand of God is sure and strong,
Nor shall a man forever flee
The bitter punishment of wrong.
The wrath of God is over me!
With ashen bread and wine of tears
Shall I be solaced in my pain.
I wear through black and endless years
Upon my brow the mark of Cain.
III
Poor vagabond, so old and mild,
Will they not keep him for a night?
And She, a woman great with child,
So frail and pitiful and white.
Good people, since the tavern door
Is shut to you, come here instead.
See, I have cleansed my stable floor
And piled fresh hay to make a bed.
Here is some milk and oaten cake.
Lie down and sleep and rest you fair,
Nor fear, O simple folk, to take
The bounty of a child of care.
IV
On nights like this the huddled sheep --
I never saw a night so fair.
How huge the sky is, and how deep!
And how the planets flash and glare!
At dawn beside my drowsy flock
What winged music I have heard!
But now the clouds with singing rock
As if the sky were turning bird.
O blinding Light, O blinding Light!
Burn through my heart with sweetest pain.
O flaming Song, most loudly bright,
Consume away my deadly stain!
V
The stable glows against the sky,
And who are these that throng the way?
My three old comrades hasten by
And shining angels kneel and pray.
The door swings wide -- I cannot go --
I must and yet I dare not see.
Lord, who am I that I should know --
Lord, God, be merciful to me!
VI
O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece
Of new-washed sheep on April sod!
O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace,
O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God!
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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The Ballad Of The White Lady
SIR GEOFFREY met the white lady
Upon his marriage morn,
Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are,
Her hair was gold like corn.
Sir Geoffrey gave the white lady
A posy of roses seven,
'You are the fairest May,' said he,
'That ever strayed from Heaven.'
Sir Geoffrey by the white lady
Was lured away to shame,
For seven long years of prayers and tears
No tidings of him came.
Then she who should have been his bride
A mighty oath she swore,
'For seven long years I have wept and prayed,
Now I will pray no more.
'Since God and all the saints of Heaven
Bring not my lord to me,
I will go down myself to hell
And bring him back,' said she.
She crept to the white lady's bower,
The taper's flame was dim,
And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep,
And the white witch sat by him.
Her arm was laid across his neck,
Her gold hair on his face,
And there was silence in the room
As in a burial-place.
And there were gems and carven cups,
And 'broidered bridal gear--
'Whose bridal is this?' the lady said,
'And what knight have ye here?'
'The good knight here ye know full well,
He was your lord, I trow,
But I have taken him from your side,
And I am his lady now.
'This seven year with right good cheer
We twain our bridal keep,
So take for your mate another knight
And let my dear lord sleep.'
Then up and spake Sir Geoffrey's bride,
'What bridal cheer is this?
I would think scorn to have the lips
Who could not have the kiss!
'I would think scorn to take the half
Who could not have the whole;
I would think scorn to steal the body
Who could not take the soul!
'For, though ye hold his body fast
This seven weary year,
His soul walks ever at my side
And whispers in my ear.
'I would think scorn to hold in sleep
What, if it waked, would flee,
So let his body join his soul
And both fare forth with me;
'For I have learned a spell more strong
Than yours that laid him low,
And I will speak it for his sake
Because I love him so!'
The white lady threw back her hair,
Her eyes began to shine--
'His soul is thine these seven years?--
To-night it shall be mine!
'I have been brave to hold him here
While seven long years befell,
Rather than let a bridal be
Whose seed should flower in hell.
'I have not looked into his eyes
Nor joined my lips to his,
For fear his soul should spring to flame
And shrivel at my kiss.
'I have been brave to watch his sleep
While the long hours come and go,
To hold the body without the soul,
Because I love him so.
'But since his soul this seven year
Has sat by thee,' she said,
'His body and soul to-night shall lie
Upon my golden bed.
'Thou hast no need to speak the spell
That thou hast learned,' said she,
'For I will wake him from his sleep
And take his soul from thee.'
She stooped above him where he lay,
She laid her lips on his;
He stirred, he spake: 'These seven long years
I have waited for thy kiss.
'My soul has hung upon thy lips
And trembled at thy breath,
Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink,
As God will give me death.
'Why didst thou fear to kill my soul
Which only lives for thee?
Thou hast put seven wasted years,
O love, 'twixt thee and me.'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Let The Night Sleep
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With the night I sleep
Beyond the world to peep
Universe will sleep
Plants and trees
Birds and bees
Stars and moon
To sleep very soon!
Fruits and flowers
Joy with showers
Will sleep with me and the night
Not to keep the life very tight!
No dawn of the day
Right upto the dooms day!
Sleep permanent
In the world impermanent
I'll sleep without light
My agonies will sleep
My worries will sleep
My pains will sleep
My sins will sleep!
While in sleep
I am pure
I am peace
I am noble!
While my body is asleep
Awake my soul I keep
Sleep akin to death
Death akin to sleep in mirth?
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With night I sleep
Sleep to eternity
Soul to merge in Divinity!
poem by Subbaraman N V
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Cornish Lullaby
Out on the mountain over the town,
All night long, all night long,
The trolls go up and the trolls go down,
Bearing their packs and crooning a song;
And this is the song the hill-folk croon,
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,--
This is ever their dolorous tune:
"Gold, gold! ever more gold,--
Bright red gold for dearie!"
Deep in the hill the yeoman delves
All night long, all night long;
None but the peering, furtive elves
See his toil and hear his song;
Merrily ever the cavern rings
As merrily ever his pick he swings,
And merrily ever this song he sings:
"Gold, gold! ever more gold,--
Bright red gold for dearie!"
Mother is rocking thy lowly bed
All night long, all night long,
Happy to smooth thy curly head
And to hold thy hand and to sing her song;
'T is not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old,
Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold,
And the burden it beareth is not of gold;
But it's "Love, love!--nothing but love,--
Mother's love for dearie!"
poem by Eugene Field
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Hypnos
In my sleep, my somber sleep,
My eyes opened wide my somber sleep,
Aside Lord Hypnos, god of silent sleep,
Alone in a cave where no sun shines,
In an alias, along with Zeus alongside the divine,
Forever asleep surround by poppies and hypnogogic plants.
Under the spell of Thánatos, and never wishing grants,
In my sleep, my somber sleep,
Around me Morpheous creeps,
To cast away sounds and never awake from sleep,
I dream under the dark skies of Nyx through the night,
In my dream I percieve Morpheous, Phobetor, and Phantasos as kings,
In my dreams escape and salvation is what they bring!
Through this cave flowed the river of Lethe,
The river of forgetfulness, the river in my mind I see,
My eyes opened wide I stare at the beauty of Salene,
Daughter of titans Hyperion and Theia beautiful is she,
In my somber sleep, Salene casts over me the moon,
Also the goddess of the moon, I fall asleep too soon,
Lord Hypnos god of silent sleep,
Keep me asleep and cast away the grief!
Keep me away from the sun that Helios brings,
Keep me asleep where poppies and hypnogogic plants sings!
Close the black curtains around me, let me sleep,
Let me swim in thoughts of epiphany, in the river of Lethe,
With Endymion forever I sleep under the moon of the lunar diety,
Forever asleep with Mythological Gods of different variety,
Lord Hypnos, forever keep my asleep,
Never more I was my hands in Lethe while I weep.
poem by Kurt Kacich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gold and Love for Dearie
Out on the mountain over the town,
All night long, all night long,
The trolls go up and the trolls go down,
Bearing their packs and singing a song;
And this is the song the hill-folk croon,
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon--
This is ever their dolorous tune:
'Gold, gold! ever more gold--
Bright red gold for dearie!'
Deep in the hill a father delves
All night long, all night long;
None but the peering, furtive elves
Sees his toil and hears his song;
Merrily ever the cavern rings
As merrily ever his pick he swings,
And merrily ever this song he sings:
'Gold, gold! ever more gold--
Bright red gold for dearie!'
Mother is rocking thy lowly bed
All night long, all night long,
Happy to smooth thy curly head,
To hold thy hand and to sing her song:
'T is not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,
Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,
And the burthen it beareth is not of gold:
But it 's 'Love, love! nothing but love--
Mother's love for dearie!'
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballade Of Sleep
The hours are passing slow,
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower, and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear sue, Sleep?
All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow,
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
What cause hast thou to show
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have laboured
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red,
Where thy still gardens grow,
And Lethe's waters weep.
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
ENVOY.
Prince, ere the dark be shred
By golden shafts, ere now
And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead,
Soft-footed as the snow,
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Fields Of Gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
Youll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold
So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold
Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
Well forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold
See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that Ive broken
But I swear in the days still left
Well walk in the fields of gold
Well walk in the fields of gold
Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nod
Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.
The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.
His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.
His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
The waters of no-more-pain,
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
'Rest, rest, and rest again.'
poem by Walter de la Mare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The City of Sleep
Over the edge of the purple down,
Where the single lamplight gleams,
Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams--
Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,
And the sick may forget to weep?
But we--pity us! Oh, pity us!
We wakeful; ah, pity us! --
We must go back with Policeman Day--
Back from the City of Sleep!
Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,
Fetter and prayer and plough--
They that go up to the Merciful Town,
For her gates are closing now.
It is their right in the Baths of Night
Body and soul to steep,
But we--pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us!--
We must go back with Policeman Day--
Back from the City of Sleep!
Over the edge of the purple down,
Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look--we may look--at the Merciful Town,
But we may not enter in!
Outcasts all, from her guarded wall
Back to our watch we creep:
We--pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us!--
We that go back with Policeman Day--
Back from the City of Sleep!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Green Tornado
Green tornado fast asleep,
Just above your forest sweep,
High above the planes of gold,
Which drought and hunger will evolve.
Green tornado fast asleep,
Underneath the tigers creep,
Through the forest stalking prey,
While far away the dear do play.
For green tornado fast asleep,
You are mother natures keep,
With heart of gold and blood of fire,
The world is yours while men admire.
poem by Alya casbian
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Messidor
Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.
Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.
In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red-gold harvest-rows,
Full-grown, are full of the light
As the spirits of strong men are,
Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?
Who put back morning or mar?
Put in the sickles and reap.
Till the red-gold harvest-rows
For miles through shudder and shine
In the wind's breath, fed with the sun,
A thousand spear-heads as one
Bowed as for battle to close
Line in rank against line
With place and station to keep
Till all men's hands at a sign
Put in the sickles and reap.
A thousand spear-heads as one
Wave as with swing of the sea
When the mid tide sways at its height;
For the hour is for harvest or fight
In face of the just calm sun,
As the signal in season may be
And the lot in the helm may leap
When chance shall shake it; but ye,
Put in the sickles and reap.
For the hour is for harvest or fight
To clothe with raiment of red;
O men sore stricken of hours,
Lo, this one, is not it ours
To glean, to gather, to smite?
Let none make risk of his head
Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep,
When the people that lay as the dead
Put in the sickles and reap.
Lo, this one, is not it ours,
Now the ruins of dead things rattle
As dead men's bones in the pit,
Now the kings wax lean as they sit
Girt round with memories of powers,
With musters counted as cattle
And armies folded as sheep
Till the red blind husbandman battle
Put in the sickles and reap?
Now the kings wax lean as they sit,
The people grow strong to stand;
The men they trod on and spat,
The dumb dread people that sat
As corpses cast in a pit,
Rise up with God at their hand,
And thrones are hurled on a heap,
And strong men, sons of the land,
Put in the sickles and reap.
The dumb dread people that sat
All night without screen for the night,
All day without food for the day,
They shall give not their harvest away,
They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat:
They shall see the desire of their sight,
Though the ways of the seasons be steep,
They shall climb with face to the light,
Put in the sickles and reap.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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