 | The Triangular Society |  |
BED-TIME.
The children's bed-time hour struck long ago,
But all too short to them the evening seems;
They linger by the fire, although they know
Their shoes should all be standing in a row,
And each bright head be busy with its dreams.
But all too short to them the evening seems;
They linger by the fire, although they know
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And each bright head be busy with its dreams.
They dread the bed's soft chill, the pillow's cold,
And make the plea so often made before;
With small excuse and pretexts manifold,
They stop to hear some well-known story told,
Or play, perhaps, some worn-out game once more.
And make the plea so often made before;
With small excuse and pretexts manifold,
They stop to hear some well-known story told,
Or play, perhaps, some worn-out game once more.
Yet in the morning, when the mother's call
Rings up the stairway, not a voice replies;
Last evening's interests are forgotten all;
Each hides his face, or turns it to the wall,
Nor once uplifts the lids of sleepy eyes.
Rings up the stairway, not a voice replies;
Last evening's interests are forgotten all;
Each hides his face, or turns it to the wall,
Nor once uplifts the lids of sleepy eyes.
In vain to tempt them forth to sport and light,
The wakening sunbeams through the curtains peep;
The world has lost the charm it held last night;
Stories, books, games, are all forgotten quite,
Nor work nor play is half so sweet as sleep.
The wakening sunbeams through the curtains peep;
The world has lost the charm it held last night;
Stories, books, games, are all forgotten quite,
Nor work nor play is half so sweet as sleep.
With shoulders bowed, and aches in every limb,
My neighbor stoops beneath his eighty years;
Slow is his step, and every sense is dim;
How can the world keep any charm for him,
Or life be anything but pains and fears?
My neighbor stoops beneath his eighty years;
Slow is his step, and every sense is dim;
How can the world keep any charm for him,
Or life be anything but pains and fears?
Yet still he grasps it with unyielding hold,
And when his hour comes, chooses not to know;
Still waits to hear the worn-out stories told,
Still counts his gains, still notes the price of gold,
And plays the game that tired him long ago.
And when his hour comes, chooses not to know;
Still waits to hear the worn-out stories told,
Still counts his gains, still notes the price of gold,
And plays the game that tired him long ago.
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But when he finds, beyond the hap and harm
Which ever wait upon this mortal breath,
That what he shrunk from, with a vague alarm,
Was a kind healer, bringing peace and balm—
He will, mayhap, grow so in love with death,
Which ever wait upon this mortal breath,
That what he shrunk from, with a vague alarm,
Was a kind healer, bringing peace and balm—
He will, mayhap, grow so in love with death,
That when the morning-angel's pinions sweep,
With wakening touch, across his quiet breast,
To rouse him from his slumber soft and deep,—
He will but murmur, in his happy sleep,
“Even heaven itself is not so sweet as rest!”
With wakening touch, across his quiet breast,
To rouse him from his slumber soft and deep,—
He will but murmur, in his happy sleep,
“Even heaven itself is not so sweet as rest!”
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