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 | ON THE PICTURE OF A “CHILD TIRED OF PLAY” The complete works of N.P. Willis |  |
ON THE PICTURE OF A “CHILD TIRED OF PLAY”
Tired of play! Tired of play!
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done —
How hast thou spent it — restless one!
Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at even tide?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and by singing rill?
There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired — but not of play!
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now,
With drooping limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.
Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee, if thy lip could tell
A tale like this, of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath reliev'd distress —
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness —
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence —
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With their holy meanings eloquently —
If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove —
If never a sad, low-spoken word
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard —
Then, when the night steals on, as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace, at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done —
How hast thou spent it — restless one!
Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at even tide?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and by singing rill?
There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired — but not of play!
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now,
With drooping limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.
Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee, if thy lip could tell
A tale like this, of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath reliev'd distress —
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness —
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence —
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With their holy meanings eloquently —
If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove —
If never a sad, low-spoken word
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard —
Then, when the night steals on, as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace, at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
| ON THE PICTURE OF A “CHILD TIRED OF PLAY” The complete works of N.P. Willis | |