A Sleep Song

O Sleep, go. Sleep, hasten to my lover, 
Leave my eyelids all forlorn of thy quiet breath; 
Where my love lies wakeful, go thou and lean over, 
Singing low, singing slow, dearest child of Death. 
Fair Sleep, rare Sleep, Death that is thy father, 
Night that is thy mother, both sow flowers for thee; 
White poppies dashed with dew, drowsy flowers to gather, 
Yellow rose that silence saith to the busiest bee. 

Hear, Sleep, dear Sleep, ere my song be ended — 
Gather me thy fairest flowers a soft dream to make 
For my love — a dream of scent and of music blended. 
Ay, and let me kiss the dream for the dreamer's sake. 
O Sleep, blow sleep-dust upon his pillow 
Till he dreams it is my breast, and to dream is fain; 
Let him think it is my hair, not thy branch of willow,
Dark against the little light through the rain-blurred pane.