Come into my silken cradle, children,

and wrap yourselves in sleep.

The slightest breath of the wind will lull you

and make your slumbers deep.

The feet grow weary of summer's freedom.

Wings tire of the air.

Rock, rock in my silken cradle.

Find peace, find freedom there.

Whatever the ends of joy and labor,

the final end is rest.

All the games lead to the game of sleeping,

and the last game is best.

Wrapped in my gauzy hammock, slumber,

watched over by the angel, Night;

and Death himself shall rock the cradle

and make your dreaming light.

 Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie