THE SANDMAN
- truth
- shoes
- (oak)
- cl oak
The Sandman comes across the land,
At evening, when the sun is low:
Upon his back a bag of sand—
His step is soft and low.
I never hear his gentle tread,
But when I bend my sleepy head,
“The Sandman’s coming!” mother says,
And mother tells the truth, always!
I guess he’s old, with silver hair,
He’s up so late! He has to go
To lots of children, everywhere,
At evening, when the sun is low.
His cloak is long, and green and old,
With pretty dreams in every fold—
His shoes are silken, mother says,
And mother tells the truth, always!
He glides across the sunset hill,
To seek each little child, like me:
Our all-day-tired eyes to fill
With sands of sleep, from slumber’s sea.
I try my best awake to stay,
But I am tired out with play;
“I’ll never see him!” mother says,
And mother tells the truth—always!
—Marie Van Vorst