Slumber Song

Gently fall the shadows gray,
    Daylight softly veiling;
Now to Dreamland we'll away,
    Sailing, sailing, sailing.

Little eyes were made for sleeping,
    Little heads were made for rest,
Golden locks were made for keeping
    Close to mother's breast;
Little hands were made for folding,
    Little lips should never sigh;
What dear mother's arms are holding,
    Love alone can buy.

Gently fall the shadows gray,
    Daylight softly veiling;
Now to Dreamland we'll away,
    Sailing, sailing, sailing.

Arthur Macy

Arthur Macy was an American poet known for his contributions during the 19th century. Born on June 6, 1842, he became widely recognized for his poignant and evocative verses, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry gained considerable respect and admiration during his lifetime. He passed away on June 1, 1904.

Arthur Macy

Disenchantment

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

The Passing Of The Rose

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Economy [A Valentine]

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

The Rollicking Mastodon

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

English

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The Song

I heard an old, familiar air
    Strummed idly by a careless hand,
Yet in the melody were rare,
    Sweet echoings from childhood land.

The well-remembered mother touch,
    The wise denials and consents,
The trivial sorrows that were much,
    Small pleasures that were large events;

The fancies, dreams, strange wonderings,
    The daily problems unexplained,
Momentous as the cares of kings
    That on unhappy thrones have reigned,

Came back with each unstudied tone;
    And came that song remembered best,
Which, with a sweetness all its own,
    Once lulled the play-worn child to rest.

And there, secure as Tarik's height,
    He slumbered, shielded from alarms,
Safe from the mystery of night,
    Close folded in the moth...

Arthur Macy

At Twilight Time

At twilight time when tolls the chime,
    And saddest notes are falling,
A lonely bird with plaintive word
    Across the dusk is calling.
Vain doth it wait for one dear mate,
    That ne'er shall know the morrow;
Then sinks to rest with drooping crest
    In one long dream of sorrow.

Dearest, when night is here,
    To thee I'm calling,
Sadly as tear on tear
    Is slowly falling,
Oh, fold me near, more near -
    In love enthralling!
Here on thy breast,
    While life shall last,
With thee I stay.
    Here will I rest
Till night is past,
    And comes the day!

Arthur Macy

Lullaby.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Evening is coming, and night is nigh;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be sleeping by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Darkness is creeping along the sky;
Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,
    Slowly the moon comes sailing by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be waking by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Horace Smith

The Isle Of Sleep.

In those dark mornings, deep in June,
    When brooding birds stir in the nest,
And heavy dews slip down the leaves,
    And drop into the rose's breast,
I woke and looked into the east,
    And saw no sign of coming day,
The pale cold morning rolled in mist,
    Slept on the hill-tops far away.

My window looked into the dawn,
    The slumbering dawn that was so nigh,
The shadow of the hills was drawn
    In waving lines against the sky.
But warmer hues began to tip
    The edges of the mountain cloud
And morning's rosy cheek and lip
    Glowed softly through her snow-pale shroud.

I turned and gazed into the west,
    The river murmured in my ear
'Gone night, and silence, dreams and rest,
    Another day of toil is here.'

...

Kate Seymour Maclean

A Lullaby.

I.

In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleep
The twilight comes like a little goose-girl,
Herding her owls with many"tu-whoos,"
Her little brown owls in the woodland deep,
Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,
And gown of glimmering pearl.

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
This is the road to Rockaby Town.
Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap;
Here you can buy any dream for a crown.

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep,
The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town.
Now you go up, sweet, now you go down,
Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.

II.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wears
A mantle of purple so old, so old!
Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said,

Madison Julius Cawein

Airy Tongues

I.

I hear a song the wet leaves lisp
When Morn comes down the woodland way;
And misty as a thistle-wisp
Her gown gleams windy gray;
A song, that seems to say,
"Awake! 'tis day!"

I hear a sigh, when Day sits down
Beside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;
While on her glistening hair and gown
The rose of rest is strewn;
A sigh, that seems to croon,
"Come sleep! 'tis noon!"

I hear a whisper, when the stars,
Upon some evening-purpled height,
Crown the dead Day with nenuphars
Of dreamy gold and white;
A voice, that seems t' invite,
"Come love! 'tis night!"


II.

Before the rathe song-sparrow sings
Among the hawtrees in the lane,
And to the wind the locust flings
Its early clusters fresh with rain;
B...

Madison Julius Cawein