Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord,
And let us sleep;
Give us our portion of forgetfulness,
Silent and deep.
Lay Thou Thy quiet hand upon our eyes
To close their sight;
Shut out the shining of the moon and stars
Keep back the phantoms and the visions sad,
The shades of grey,
The fancies that so haunt the little hours
Before the day.
Quiet the time-worn questions that are all
Take from the spent and troubled souls of us
Their vain regret;
And lead us far into Thy silent land,
That we may go
Like children out across the field o' dreams
Where poppies blow.
So all Thy saints - and all Thy sinners too -
Wilt Thou not keep,
Since not alone unto Thy well-beloved
Thou givest sleep?