Nocturn.
133
Sleep, weary soul! the folding arms of night
For thee are spread;
Her fresh, cool kisses on thy brow alight;
Droop, aching head!
Receive the slumberous dew these gracious heavens have shed.
For thee are spread;
Her fresh, cool kisses on thy brow alight;
Droop, aching head!
Receive the slumberous dew these gracious heavens have shed.
Thy day is long, thy noontide hot and sere;
But eve hath come
To sing low anthems in thy trancèd ear
Like welcomes home,
And prelude this brief sleep with songs of one to come.
But eve hath come
To sing low anthems in thy trancèd ear
Like welcomes home,
And prelude this brief sleep with songs of one to come.
