My soul shall listen for thy whispering.
The work of life may so fill up the day
That not a thought of me shall venture there;
And after labor Love may charm away
What could not enter for the press of care.
But when thou'st bidden all this world good-night,
And enterest that which lies so close to mine,
Call me by name—-it is my angel's right—
And I shall hear thee, though I give no sign.
When morn undoes the high, white gates of sleep,