Weary of playing the long day through?
But there’s something that looks like a tear in your eye,
And your lips—why, your lips are quivering, too!
Do I guess aright?—it is coming night,
And you cry for the old—you are tired of the new?
Little one, little one, old loves are best;
And the heart still clings though the hands loose their hold!
Take the old doll back, in your arms she shall rest,
When you wander away to the dreamland fold.
(With all, even so,—ere to sleep we go,