SLEEP on, my poor child, sleep;

Why must thou wake again?

Thou are but born into a world of woe,

Of agony unending, deep,

Of long-protracted pain.

A faint light is thrown on thine eyes,

Alas! thy right to joy is plain:

I see thou dream'st of Paradise,

And thou wilt only wake to pain.

Why must thou wake again?

Wert thou not born with tears and travail?

Thy first cry was a wail;

Life is a mystery, strange and sad,

A wondrous riddle to unravel,

But who shall lift the vail?

Sleep on, my poor child, sleep,

Naught is so sweet as sleep;

Not all the joys of love,

The tears that lovers weep;

Amber and coral from the deep,

Are not so sweet as sleep.

‘Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;

Sleep on,’ the mother said,

‘I will sit here and weep.’

She looked on her child, asleep,

And saw the child was dead:

‘’Tis well,’ the mother said.