Whitacre: Sleep

The evening hangs beneath the moon,

A silver thread on darkened dune.

With closing eyes and resting head

I know that sleep is coming soon.

Upon my pillow, safe in bed,

A thousand pictures fill my head.

I cannot sleep, my mind's a-flight;

And yet my limbs seem made of lead.

If there are noises in the night,

A frightening shadow, flickering light,

Then I surrender unto sleep,

Where clouds of dream give second sight,

What dreams may come, both dark and deep,

Of flying wings and soaring leap

As I surrender unto sleep,

As I surrender unto sleep.