There was a time, O fairest head
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That all too early sought repose,
That I could not be comforted
Until your face again arose,
And the Lord Jesu well He knows
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If I have failed my troth to keep;
But now, where the tall poppy grows,
I only come to whisper "Sleep!"
So few the years since you are sped
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Along the pathway of the snows,
Still are you young amid the dead;
But, since your going, the world goes
A wild way, every wind that blows
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Whirls some old fairness to the deep,
And Beauty flies before her foes—
I only come to whisper "Sleep!"
Glad am I of your quiet bed,
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Glad am I of the stream that flows,
Murmuring to you its drowsihead,
Glad am I of the punctual rose
That over you its petals throws,
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Glad of the willow-leaves that weep
Above us both, as, leaning close,
I only come to whisper "Sleep!"
Princess, my heart its hope foregoes,
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All that we loved away they sweep,
A world of carrion kites and crows—
I only come to whisper "Sleep!"