the summer day is far too long
to count each breath, that dying breeze,
scarce strong enough to stir the leaves
And broken bough. The fallen child,
ne'er so peacefully has smiled,
'till babe and cradle both have dropped,
when crying and pain both will stop.
Sing a song of the end of day,
a song of earth, of ash and clay,
The field that scythe and sickle reap
is not so far removed from sleep--
The call of the raven's more fair than the lark.
Sing us a song of the silent dark,
past the gates where angels cry,
sing me one last lullabye.