Eugene Field on Sleep

“If thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, My mulberry one, my golden son, The rose shall sing thee lullabies, My pretty cosset lambkin!”

“The mill goes toiling slowly round With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak; While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings, Sleep, little tulip, sleep.”