Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper,
Whispering with thy angel keeper,
List’ning to the words he brings thee
From a fairer world than this;
Ah! thy heart he is beguiling,
I can tell it by thy smiling,
As he woos thee into dreamland
With a kiss.
Could there come to weary mortals
Such a glimpse through golden portals,
Would we not drift on forever,
Toward that far-off land of peace;
Would we not leave joys and sorrows,
Glad to-days, and sad to-morrows,
For the sound of white wings lifting,
For an angel’s tender kiss.
Only a Picture
SOMETHING to show me—well, my lass,
Make haste, I have no time to idle,
These bright spring hours they seem to pass
Like colts that fly from bit and bridle.
A picture—well, if that is all,
I can’t—my child don’t look so sorry,
I’ll come and see, although I call
The whole thing only waste and worry.
But have your nonsense while you may,
Your brushes, paints, and long-haired master,
They’re pretty whims for you who see
Such beauty in a canvas plaster.
What’s in a picture? there’s but one
Could win for me an hour’s gazing;
It comes sometimes when day is done,
And dusk falls on the cattle grazing.
A big, old house that fronts the sea,
The sunlight falling on the gables,
The wood—what’s this? Why, can it be!
Lass, you have neatly turned the tables.
Know it? Ay, know each blade and stalk,
Each sunny knoll, each shady cover,
Why, every flower beside yon walk
Has had in me a faithful lover!