Poetry Archives

The rosy clouds float overhead,
  The sun is going down,
And now the sandman’s gentle tread
  Comes stealing through the town.

    “White sand, white sand,” he softly cries,
      And, as he shakes his hand,
    Straightway there lies on babies’ eyes
      His gift of shining sand.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he
     goes through the town.

    From sunny beaches far away,
      Yes, in another land,
    He gathers up at break of day
      His store of shining sand.
    No tempests beat that shore remote,
      No ships may sail that way;
    His little boat alone may float
      Within that lovely bay.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he
     goes through the town.

    He smiles to see the eyelids close
      Above the happy eyes!
    And every child right well he knows—
      Oh, he is very wise!
    But if, as he goes through the land,
      A naughty baby cries,
    His other hand takes dull gray sand
      To close the wakeful eyes.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he
     goes through the town.

  So when you hear the sandman’s song
    Sound through the twilight sweet,
  Be sure you do not keep him long
    A-waiting on the street.
  Lie softly down, dear little head,
    Rest quiet, busy hands,
  Till, by your bed his good-night said,
    He strews the shining sands.
Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,
As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he
     goes through the town.