The clock strikes seven in the hall,
The curfew of the children's day,
That calls each little pattering foot
From dance and song and livelong play;
Their day that in our wider light
Floats like a silver day-moon white,
Nor in our darkness sinks to rest,
But sets within a golden west.
Ah, tender hour that sends a drift
Of children's kisses through the house,
And cuckoo-notes of sweet "Good night,"
That thoughts of heaven and home arouse;
And a soft stir to sense and heart.
As when the bee and blossom part;
And little feet that patter slower.
Like the last droppings of the shower.
And in the children's rooms aloft
What blossom shapes do gaily slip
Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run
From clasping hand and kissing lip,
A naked sweetness to the eye, —
Blossom and babe and butterfly
In witching one, so dear a sight!
An ecstasy of life and light.
And, ah, what lovely witcheries
Bestrew the floor! an empty sock,
By vanished dance and song left loose
As dead birds' throats; a tiny smock
That, sure, upon some meadow grew,
And drank the heaven-sweet rains; a shoe
Scarce bigger than an acorn cup;
Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up.
Then lily-drest in angel-white
To mother's knee they trooping come,
The soft palms fold like kissing shells.
And they and we go singing home, —
Their bright heads bowed and worshipping.
As though some glory of the spring.
Some daffodil that mocks the day.
Should fold his golden palms and pray.
The gates of Paradise swing wide
A moment's space in soft accord,
And those dread angels. Life and Death,
A moment vail the flaming sword.
As o'er this weary world forlorn
From Eden's secret heart is borne
That breath of Paradise most fair.
Which mothers call "the children's prayer."
Ah, deep pathetic mystery!
The world's great woe unconscious hung,
A rain-drop on a blossom's lip;
White innocence that woos our wrong,
And Love divine that looks again,
Unconscious of the cross and pain,
From sweet child-eyes, and in that child
Sad earth and heaven reconciled.
Then kissed, on beds we lay them down,
As fragrant-white as clover'd sod.
And all the upper floors grow hushed
With children's sleep, and dews of God.
And as our stars their beams do hide.
The stars of twilight, opening wide,
Take up the heavenly tale at even,
And light us on to God and heaven.