WHEN the long, hot day is over,
And the sun drops down the west,
And the childish hands are weary,
And the childish feet must rest,
The Sandman steals through the portals
Where the dying sunlight gleams,
And touches the tired eyelids
And lulls them into dreams.
Even so, when life is over,
And the long day's march is past,
We wait in gathering shadows
Till the Sandman comes at last.
Sad are our hearts and weary,
And long the waiting seems;
Lord, we are tired children;
Touch Thou our eyes with dreams.
Take from the slackened fingers
The toys so heavy grown,
Give to Thy tired children
Visions of Thee alone;
Then, when at length the shadows
Darken adown the west,
Send to us Death, Thy Sandman,
To call Thine own to rest.
