Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar
Along the Psalmist's music deep
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace, surpassing this—
'He giveth His belovèd sleep'?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
He giveth His belovèd, sleep

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved
A little dust to overweep
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake
He giveth His belovèd, sleep

'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eye-lids creep
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His belovèd, sleep
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all
He giveth His belovèd, sleep

His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it saileth still
Though on its slope men sow and reap
More softly than the dew is shed
Or cloud is floated overhead
He giveth His belovèd, sleep

Aye, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard—
'He giveth His belovèd, sleep.'

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show
That sees through tears the mummers leap
Would now its wearied vision close
Would child-like on His love repose
Who giveth His belovèd, sleep
And, friends, dear friends,—when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me
And round my bier ye come to weep
Let One, most loving of you all
Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall;
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.'