Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord,
And let us sleep;
Give us our portion of forgetfulness,
Silent and deep.
Lay Thou Thy quiet hand upon our eyes,
To close their sight;
Shut out the shining of the moon, and stars,
And candle-light.
Keep back the phantoms and the visions sad,--
The shades of grey,--
The fancies that so haunt the little hours
Before the day.
Quiet the time-worn questions that are all
Unanswered yet;
Take from the spent and troubled souls of us
Their vain regret;
And lead us far into Thy silent land,
That we may go,
Like children out across the field o' dreams,
Where poppies blow.
So all Thy saints--and all Thy sinners, too--
Wilt Thou not keep,
Since not alone unto Thy well-beloved
Thou givest sleep?