When day is ended, and grey twilight flies
On silent wings across the tired land,
The Slumber-Angel cometh from the skies,—
The Slumber-Angel of the peaceful eyes,
And with the scarlet poppies in his hand.
His robes are dappled like the moonlit seas,
His hair in waves of silver floats afar;
He weareth lotus-bloom, and sweet heartsease,
With tassels of the rustling, green fir trees,
As down the dusk he steps from star to star.
Above the world he swings his curfew bell,
And sleep falls soft on golden heads and white;
The daisies curl their leaves beneath his spell,—
The prisoner who wearies in his cell
Forgets awhile, and dreams throughout the night.
Even so, in peace, comes that great Lord of rest
Who crowneth men with amaranthine flowers;
Who telleth them the truths they have but guessed,
Who giveth them the things they love the best,
Beyond this restless, rocking world of ours.