Rest you here, enchanter, while the light fades,Vision narrows, and the farSky-edge is gone with the sun.Be content with the small sparkOf the coal, the smellOf food, and the breathOf frost beyond the shut door. Home is here, and familiar things;A cup, a wooden bowl, a blanket,Prayer, a gift for the god, and sleep.(And music, says the harp, And music.)Rest here, enchanter, while the fire dies.In a breath, in an eyelid's fall,You will see them, the dreams;The sword and the young king,The white horse and the running water,The lit lamp and the boy smiling.Dreams, dreams, enchanter! Gone with the harp's echo when the stringsFall mute; with the flame's shadow when the fireDies.Be still, and listen.Far on the black air Blows the great wind, risesThe running tide, flows the clear river.Listen, enchanter, hear