Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon and blow,
Blow him again to me,
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon.
Rest, rest on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon:
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west,
Under the silver moon.
Sleep my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep.
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle, blow; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! … how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle blow: answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grown for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle, blow: echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glitt’ring on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.