Gentle, Lady, be thy sleeping, Peaceful may thy dreamings be, While around thy soul is sweeping, Dreamy-winged, our melody; Chant we, Brothers, sad and slow, Let our song be soft and low As the voice of other years, Let our hearts within us melt, To gentleness, as if we felt The dropping of our mother's tears. Lady! now our song is bringing Back again thy childhood's hours-- Hearest thou the humbee singing Drowsily among the flowers? Sleepily, sleepily In the noontide swayeth he, Half rested on the slender stalks That edge those well-known garden walks; Hearest thou the fitful whirring Of the humbird's viewless wings-- Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring Of childhood's half-forgotten things? Seest thou the dear old dwelling With the woodbine round the door? Brothers, soft! her breast is swelling With the busy thoughts of yore; Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly, House her spirit not so wildly, Lest she sleep not any more. 'Tis the pleasant summertide, Open stands the window wide-- Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking? Who sings the best belovèd tune In a clear note, rising, sinking, Like a thrush's song in June? Whose laugh is that which rings so clear And joyous in thine eager ear? Lower, Brothers, yet more low Weave the song in mazy twines; She heareth now the west wind blow At evening through the clump of pines; O! mournful is their tune, As of a crazèd thing Who, to herself alone, Is ever murmuring, Through the night and through the day, For something that hath passed away. Often, Lady, hast thou listened, Often have thy blue eyes glistened, Where the summer evening breeze Moaned sadly through those lonely trees, Or with the fierce wind from the north Wrung their mournful music forth. Ever the river floweth In an unbroken stream, Ever the west wind bloweth, Murmuring as he goeth, And mingling with her dream; Onward still the river sweepeth With a sound of long-agone; Lowly, Brothers, lo! she weepeth, She is now no more alone; Long-loved forms and long-loved faces Round about her pillow throng, Through her memory's desert places Flow the waters of our song. Lady! if thy life be holy As when thou wert yet a child, Though our song be melancholy, It will stir no anguish wild; For the soul that hath lived well, For the soul that child-like is, There is quiet in the spell That brings back early memories. SONG. I. Lift up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light outshine! Let me adore the mysteries Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll, Attunèd to an ordered soul! II. Open thy lips yet once again And, while my soul doth hush With awe, pour forth that holy strain Which seemeth me to gush, A fount of music, running o'er From thy deep spirit's inmost core!