Sleep, brown-eyed, sleep. 'Tis but the winds that weep, Telling from tree to tree Their ancient misery. 'Tis but the winds that weep. Sleep. . . . Sleep. 'Tis but the touch of dreams Upon your mouth that seems Like groping kisses . . . Sleep! 'Tis but the dreams . . . And, oh, 'tis but the dew So bitter tastes to you, Falling the long night through, Falling on lips untrue -- The dew, only the dew. |