Sound Sleep

Some are laughing, some are weeping;     She is sleeping, only sleeping.     Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;     There the wind is heaping, heaping     Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping.     By the corn-fields ripe for reaping.     There are lilies, and there blushes     The deep rose, and there the thrushes     Sing till latest sunlight flushes     In the west; a fresh wind brushes     Through the leaves while evening hushes.     There by day the lark is singing     And the grass and weeds are springing;     There by night the bat is winging;     There for ever winds are bringing     Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.     Night and morning, noon and even,     Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:     The long strife at lent is striven:     Till her grave-bands shall be riven     Such is the good portion given     To her soul at rest and shriven.