AT MIDNIGHT

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?