THE hurry of the moving is over,
And this is our bright new home,
Where never a sob has sounded,
Where never a sin has come.
We seem to be shorter people,
So missing our ceiling low;
The hall and the winding stairway
Seem very long ways to go.
I stand on the threshold thinking
Of guests we shall hither bring—
Guests who within are waiting,
Smiling or sorrowing.
We bring it some pleasant laughter;
Some tears, as a mortal must;
Some prayers, with our full thanksgiving;
Some treasure that may not rust.
We'll find merry youth for Mabel;
For Fred there is manhood s crown;
For the mother, life's sweet autumn,
Golden, and red, and brown.
For me, as I linger longer,
The silvery sifting snow
That comes in the truthful mirror
As youth and its roses go.
But if, in the happy mansion
Some shadows there be that wait,
And some that crowd in beside us,
We fain would leave at the gate,
O Master, go in before us;
Be thou evermore our guest,
And then, in the sun or shadow,
Our home with Thy smile is blest.