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William Blake
Sleep, Sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming o'er the joys of night;
Sleep, Sleep, in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet Babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
O, the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful lightnings break.
