Rest thee, my little one, rest;
The shadow fays steal from the west
Bearing sweet dreams, like shut flowers
Asleep in the cool, dim, night hours
Rest thee, my little one, rest.
The slender moon, tip-tilted, sinks to sleep
Behind the mountain's shoulder in the west,
While on my hearth the light flames laugh and leap,
Upspringing like the fettered prisoner blest
With sudden freedom; so they flash and play
Like glinting sword-blades 'gainst the dusky sprites
That darkly battle at the close of day
Within this quiet room. My fancy lights
Upon the child, and then I see him lie
All flushed and rosy-tinted like a flower,
Kissed by Dream's dewy lips beneath my eye
Not cold in marble pureness; is 't the hour,
The warm red flames, that lend me fantasies?
Nay then, forever let me sit and dream,
Holding the child self-sheltered where there is
Naught but my love within the firelight's gleam.
Then come, thou laughing baby, to my arms,
And let thy curls fall here in tangled sway
Upon my hand; and all the night's alarms
The bright up-leaping flames shall swift dispel,
While I will croon thee soft a lullaby,
Mine own. Sleep, while the dancing fire-tongues tell
Their mystic cradle-song ere yet they die.
So rest thee, my little one, rest:
While the shadow fays steal from the west
Bearing sweet dreams, like shut flowers
Asleep in the cool, dim, night hours
Rest thee, my little one, rest.