Turn Thou The Key Upon Our Thoughts, Dear Lord, And Let Us Sleep; Give Us Our Portion Of Forgetfulness, Silent And Deep. Lay Thou Thy Quiet Hand Upon Our Eyes To Close Their Sight; Shut Out The Shining Of The Moon And Stars And Candle-Light. Keep Back The Phantoms And The Visions Sad, The Shades Of Grey, The Fancies That So Haunt The Little Hours Before The Day. Quiet The Time-Worn Questions That Are All Unanswered Yet, Take From The Spent And Troubled Souls Of Us Their Vain Regret; And Lead Us Far Into Thy Silent Land, That We May Go Like Children Out Across The Field O' Dreams Where Poppies Blow. So All Thy Saints - And All Thy Sinners Too - Wilt Thou Not Keep, Since Not Alone Unto Thy Well-Beloved Thou Givest Sleep?