O delved gold, the wailers’ heap!

O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!

God makes a silence through you all,—

He giveth His beloved sleep.

3 His dews drop mutely on the hill,

His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men toil and reap;

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved sleep.