Poem by Eugene Field

To Emma Abbott

There—let thy hands be folded
    Awhile in sleep's repose;
The patient hands that wearied not,
But earnestly and nobly wrought
      In charity and faith;
    And let thy dear eyes close—
The eyes that looked alway to God,
Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod
        Of sorrow;
Fold thou thy hands and eyes
      For just a little while,
      And with a smile
        Dream of the morrow.

And, O white voiceless flower,
    The dream which thou shalt dream
Should be a glimpse of heavenly things,
For yonder like a seraph sings
      The sweetness of a life
    With faith alway its theme;
While speedeth from those realms above
The messenger of that dear love
        That healeth sorrow.
    So sleep a little while,
      For thou shalt wake and sing
      Before thy King
        When cometh the morrow.

1. Mary Smith
2. Mother and Sphinx
3. My Playmates
4. A Piteous Plaint
5. A Paraphrase

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