The sky is dark and the hills are white
    As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,
    And this is the song the storm-king sings,
    As over the world his cloak he flings:
    “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;”
    He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
    “Sleep, little one, sleep.”

    On yonder mountain-side a vine
    Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
    The tree bends over the trembling thing,
    And only the vine can hear her sing:
    “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
    What shall you fear when I am here?
    Sleep, little one, sleep.”

    The king may sing in his bitter flight,
    The tree may croon to the vine to-night,
    But the little snowflake at my breast
    Liketh the song I sing the best,–
    Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
    Weary thou art, anext my heart
    Sleep, little one, sleep.