A flower bloomed out on a woodland hill, A song rose up from the woodland rill; But the floweret bloomed but to wither away, And no man heard what the stream had to say, For the drowsy world dreamed on.
Thro the frills of a curtain a moonbeam crept, Till it fell on the crib where a nursling slept; And a whisper and smile lit a wee dimpled face, But none save the angels their beauty could trace, For the drowsy world dreamed on.
A wee bird piped out mid the corn, A rose bloomed out beneath the thorn; But the scent of the rose and the birdling’s lay On the winds of the morning were wafted away While the drowsy world dreamed on.
And the drowsy old world’s growing gloomy and gray, While the joys that are sweetest are passing away; And the charms that inspire like the picture of dawn Are but playthings of Time—they gleam and are gone, While the drowsy world dreams on.