Little Babe, While Burns The West, Warm Thee, Warm Thee In My Breast; While The Moon Doth Shine Her Best, And The Dews Distil Not. All The Land So Sad, So Fair - Sweet Its Toils Are, Blest Its Care. Child, We May Not Enter There! Some There Are That Will Not. Fain Would I Thy Margins Know, Land Of Work, And Land Of Snow; Land Of Life, Whose Rivers Flow On, And On, And Stay Not. Fain Would I Thy Small Limbs Fold, While The Weary Hours Are Told, Little Babe In Cradle Cold. Some There Are That May Not.