Explore "To Emma Abbott" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.