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 beloved sleep.

     “Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say,
     Who have no tune to charm away
       Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
     But never doleful dream again
     Shall break the happy slumber when
       He giveth his beloved sleep.

     O earth, so full of dreary noises! 
     O men with wailing in your voices! 
       O delved gold the wailers heap! 
     O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! 
     God strikes a silence through you all,
       And giveth his beloved 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 beloved sleep.

     Ay, 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 beloved 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 childlike on His love repose
       Who giveth his beloved 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 beloved sleep.”

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

I

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years? 
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west: 
But the young, young children, O my brothers! 
They are weeping bitterly. 
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

II

Do you question the young children in their sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so? 
The old man may weep for his To-morrow
Which is lost in Long-Ago;
The old tree is leafless in the forest;
The old year is ending in the frost;
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest;
The old hope is hardest to be lost: 
But the young, young children, O my brothers! 
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?