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—