SOUND SLEEP.
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ome are laughing, some are weeping;She is sleeping, only sleeping.Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;There the wind is heaping, heapingSweetest sweets of Summer's keeping,By the cornfields ripe for reaping. There are lilies, and there blushesThe deep rose, and there the thrushesSing till latest sunlight flushesIn the west; a fresh wind brushesThrough the leaves while evening hushes. There by day the lark is singingAnd the grass and weeds are springing:There by night the bat is winging;There forever winds are bringingFar-off chimes of church-bells ringing. Night and morning, noon and even,Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:The long strife at length is striven:Till her grave-bands shall be rivenSuch is the good portion givenTo her soul at rest and shriven.
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