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.