  THE sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night; And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”; He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: “Sleep, little one, sleep.” On yonder mountain-side a vine Clings at the foot of a mother pine; The tree bends over the trembling thing, And only the vine can hear her sing: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep— What shall you fear when I am here? Sleep, little one, sleep. The king may sing in his bitter flight, The tree may croon to the vine to-night, But the little snowflake at my breast Liketh the song I sing the best— Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; Weary thou art, a-next my heart Sleep, little one, sleep. |
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