Slow creep the shadows through the curtained room,
As dies the crimson sun from out the west,
And round the sleeper falls a solemn gloom.
Rest, baby, rest!
Hush! for the wind moans through the branches hoar,
And snowflakes' wings against the pane are prest.
Hush! for an angel's step hath passed the door.
Rest, baby, rest!
Hush! for a sound of tears that needs must flow
Filleth the air, with stillness else opprest,
As wild a wounded heart sobs out its woe.
Rest, baby, rest!
Around thee fairest flowers will soon be spread,
Their blossoms breathing sweetness on thy breast —
Flowers that are sacred to the early dead.
Rest, baby, rest!
Paler than those pale flowers is thy calm brow,
And cold as mountain snow-wreath's frozen crest,
For in the shadowy vale thy spirit now
Doth rest, doth rest!
