Play me a lulling tune, O Flute-Player of Sleep,
Across the twilight bloom of thy purple havens.
Far off a phantom stag on the moonyellow highlands
Ceases ; and, as a shadow, wavers ; and passes :
So let Silence seal me and Darkness gather, Piper of Sleep.

Play me a lulling chant, O anthem-maker,
Out of the fall of lonely seas, and the wind's sorrow :
Behind are the burning glens of the sunset sky
Where like blown ghosts the seamews wail their desolate sea-dirges :
Make me of these a lulling chant, O anthem-maker.

No — no — from nets of silence weave me, O Sigher of Sleep,
A dusky veil ash-grey as the moonpale moth's grey wing ;
Of thicket-stillness woven, and sleep of grass, and thin vanishing air
Where the tall reed spires breathless — for I am tired, O Sigher of Sleep,
And long for thy muffled song as of bells on the wind, and the wind's cry
Falling, and the dim wastes that lie
Beyond the last, low, long, oblivious sigh.