Poetry Archives

   Come hither, Child! and rest:
   This is the end of day,
Behold the weary West!

   Sleep rounds with equal zest
   Man’s toil and children’s play;
Come hither, Child! and rest.

   My white bird, seek thy nest,
   Thy drooping head down lay:
Behold the weary West!

   Now are the flowers confest
   Of slumber: sleep, as they!
Come hither, Child! and rest.

   Now eve is manifest,
   And homeward lies our way:
Behold the weary West!

   Tired flower I upon my breast,
   I would wear thee alway:
Come hither, Child! and rest;
Behold, the weary West!