Little one, you must not fret
That I take your clothes away;
Better sleep you so will get,
And at morning wake more gay—
Saith the children's mother.
You I must unclothe again,
For you need a better dress;
Too much worn are body and brain;
You need everlastingness—
Saith the heavenly father.
I went down death's lonely stair;
Laid my garments in the tomb;
Dressed again one morning fair;
Hastened up, and hied me home—
Saith the elder brother.
Then I will not be afraid
Any ill can come to me;
When 'tis time to go to bed,
I will rise and go with thee—
Saith the little brother.
TO-MORROW.
My TO-MORROW is but a flitting
Fancy of the brain;
God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting,
Ready for joy or pain.
My TO-MORROW has no soul,
Dead as yesterdays;
God's—a brimming silver bowl
Of life that gleams and plays.
My TO-MORROW, I mock you away!
Shadowless nothing, thou!
God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day,
For God is in thee now.
FOOLISH CHILDREN.
Waking in the night to pray,
Sleeping when the answer comes,
Foolish are we even at play—
Tearfully we beat our drums!
Cast the good dry bread away,
Weep, and gather up the crumbs!