THE CHILD IN THE STORY GOES TO BED
Now quench my silver lamp, prythee,
And bid the harpers harp that tune
Fairies which haunt the meadowlands
Sing clearly to the stars of June.
And bid them play, though I in dreams
No longer heed their pining strains,
For I would not to silence wake
When slumber o'er my senses wanes.
You Angels bright who me defend,
Enshadow me with curved wing,
And keep me in the darksome night
Till dawn another day do bring.
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