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. Christmas Hymn
2. Pan Liveth
3. Fitte the Fifth
4. “The Old Homestead”
5. Mary Smith

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