There--let thy hands be folded <br /> Awhile in sleep's repose; <br />The patient hands that wearied not, <br />But earnestly and nobly wrought <br /> In charity and faith; <br /> And let thy dear eyes close-- <br />The eyes that looked alway to God, <br />Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod <br /> Of sorrow; <br />Fold thou thy hands and eyes <br /> For just a little while, <br /> And with a smile <br /> Dream of the morrow. <br /> <br />And, O white voiceless flower, <br /> The dream which thou shalt dream <br />Should be a glimpse of heavenly things, <br />For yonder like a seraph sings <br /> The sweetness of a life <br /> With faith alway its theme; <br />While speedeth from those realms above <br />The messenger of that dear love <br /> That healeth sorrow. <br /> So sleep a little while, <br /> For thou shalt wake and sing <br /> Before thy King <br /> When cometh the morrow.<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-emma-abbott/
