Art thou poor, thou little maiden,
Art thou poor as people think thee?
When thou hear’st thy mother singing,
Softly close thy tender eyelids,—
Lids which hide thy soul’s pearl-treasures;
Straight thereafter cometh slumber,
Slumber followed by dream’s angel,
Soft and still dream’s angel takes thee,
Lifts thee on his wings so gently,
Bears thee forth among the meadows,