O Sleep, sweet sleep, come over me.
And waft me to the land of dreams.
Where everywhere flow copious streams
Of honeyed wine, and every tree
Hangs down its branches to the ground
Fruit-laden, and on all sides round
The land smiles, beautiful and free.

No pain is there, nor any toil;
Far from the din of human life.
Far from the harsh unlovely strife.
Far from the tumult and the moil
Of struggling men, — there, far away.
In that sweet land the flowers of May
Spring aye unbidden from the soil.

O glorious land of dreams! I long
To visit thee and see thy bowers,
And lay myself amid thy flowers,
And spread my weary limbs among
Thy fragrant herbs, that so I may
Return to meet the toils of day
With manly heart, content and strong.