Lay Thou Thy quiet hand upon our eyes
To close their sight;
Shut out the shining of the moon and stars
And candle-light.
Keep back the phantoms and the visions sad,
The shades of grey,
The fancies that so haunt the little hours
Before the day.
Quiet the time-worn questions that are all
Unanswered yet,
Take from the spent and troubled souls of us
Their vain regret;
And lead us far into Thy silent land,
That we may go
Like children out across the field o' dreams
Where poppies blow.
So all Thy saints—and all Thy sinners too—
Wilt Thou not keep,
Since not alone unto Thy well-beloved
Thou givest sleep?
NOVEMBER
How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,
Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray
Doth sad November pass upon his way.
Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low—
In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,
Now all day long he paceth to and fro.
When shadows gather and the night-mists rise,
Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes
To where the last red rose of sunset lies.
A little smile he weareth, wise and cold,
The smile of one to whom all things are old,
And life is weary, as a tale twice told.