None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders, again, as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;