The Spirit Sleepeth Not

When the gentle hand of slumber
     Passes on my weary eyes.
And the forms that none can number
     In their thronging beauty rise—
Phantoms of imagination,
     With a mystic glory fraught,
Tell me by their fascination,
     That the spirit sleepeth not.

When I gaze upon the ocean,
     With its ever-heaving tide,
In its spirit-soothing motion,
     Or its desolating pride;
Changing still, it ever hath,
     Voices for the inward thought,
Telling in its love and wrath,
     That the spirit sleepeth not.

When I bend in adoration,
     Low before the throne of God,
Pouring forth my supplication,
     Spreading all my wants abroad,
Voices from the world above,
     While the earth is all forgot,
Tell me, with their tones of love,
     That the spirit sleepeth not.

From the mountains to the valleys,
     From the leaves by zephyrs stirred,
From the wind that gently dallies
     With the “ocean’s mane” are heard
Whispers of a thousands spirits,
     Telling, as on air they rise
That the soul which man inherits
     Never slumbers—never dies!