Sleep.

    Orphaned, I cry to thee:
    Sweet sleep!    O kneel and be
    A mother unto me!
        Calm thou my childish fears:
    Fold - fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly,
    And dry my tears.

    Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed
    And faint with languor, - slide
    Thy dim face down beside
        Mine own, and let me rest
    And nestle in thy heart, and there abide,
    A favored guest.

    Good night to every care,
    And shadow of despair!
    Good night to all things where
        Within is no delight! -
    Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there,
    I sob: Good night - good night!

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

The Ancient Printerman

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Billy And His Drum

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

George Mullen's Confession

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

My Henry

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Lullaby.

The maple strews the embers of its leaves
    O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves;
And the moody cricket falters in his cry - Baby-bye! -
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky - Baby-bye! -
    The lid of night is falling o'er the sky!

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup
Of the frosted calla-lily folded up;
And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh - Baby-bye! -
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie - Baby-bye! -
    O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!

Yet, Baby - O my Baby, for your sake
This heart of mine is ever wide awake,
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye - Baby-bye! -
Till your own are wet above me when I die - Baby-bye! -
    Till your own are wet above me when I die.

James Whitcomb Riley

A Mother-Song

Mother, O mother! forever I cry for you,
    Sing the old song I may never forget;
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. -
    Mother, O mother,
        Sing low, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely,
    Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret!
Can't you come back to me - for to-night only,
    Mother, my mother,
        And sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! of old I had never
    One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret;
Now - must I cry out all vainly forever, -
    Mother, sweet mother,
        O sing, "Little brother,
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet!"

Mother, O mother! must longing and sorrow

James Whitcomb Riley

By Her White Bed.

    By her white bed I muse a little space:
    She fell asleep - not very long ago, -
    And yet the grass was here and not the snow -
    The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and - her face! -
    Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace
    Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow;
    The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low
    Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place
    In thicker twilight for the roses' scent.
    Then night. - She slept - in such tranquility,
    I walk atiptoe still, nor dare to weep,
    Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content -
    That though God stood to wake her for me, she
    Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord!    Let him so sleep."

James Whitcomb Riley

Sleep

Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink
Muse on me, drifting out upon thy dreams,
I lave my soul as in enchanted streams
Where revelling satyrs pipe along the brink,
And tipsy with the melody they drink,
Uplift their dangling hooves, and down the beams
Of sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seems
An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink
Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly,
Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine,
And siren-arms that coil their sorcery
About my neck, with kisses so divine,
The heavens reel above me, and the sea
Swallows and licks its wet lips over me.

James Whitcomb Riley

The Old Trundle-Bed

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy?
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, clear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw
The stars through the window, and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the...

James Whitcomb Riley

To Annie

When the lids of dusk are falling
    O'er the dreamy eyes of day,
And the whippoorwills are calling,
    And the lesson laid away, -
May Mem'ry soft and tender
    As the prelude of the night,
Bend over you and render
    As tranquil a delight.

James Whitcomb Riley