Sleep, little tired eyes, close to the heart of me,
Sleep while the sun trembles low in the west;
You who are dream of my dreams, and a part of me --
Sleep with your head lying warm on my breast.
Dear, there's a land that is filled with red flowers,
Poppies, they call them, that sway in the breeze;
Sometimes their petals, in soft scarlet showers,
Fall in warm drifts that are high as your knees. . . .
Dear, in your dreams you will laugh as you roll through them,
Waving your arms in an effort to creep;
Gently they nod as the wind sings its soul through them,
Sleep, little tired eyes, sleep. . . .
Dear, in this land there's a sky like a feather,
Blue in some places, or white as a star;
And there's a fragrance -- a plant that's called heather
Grows in the spot where the butterflies are.
Dear, there are pastures as gay as glad laughter,
Dotted with hundreds of woolly white sheep,
Dear, you can pat them, for they'll follow after
You, as you sleep. . . .
Dream, little tired eyes, close to the breast of me,
Wander in fields where red flowers are gloaming;
All of my heart wanders with you, the rest of me
Watches your dreaming. . . .
Margaret E. Sangster
