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Eugene Field - To Emma AbbottEugene Field - To Emma Abbott
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There—let thy hands be folded     Awhile in sleep`s repose; The patient hands that wearied not, But earnestly and nobly wrought       In charity and faith;     And let thy dear eyes close— The eyes that looked alway to God, Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod         Of sorrow; Fold thou thy hands and eyes       For just a little while,       And with a smile         Dream of the morrow. And, O white voiceless flower,     The dream which thou shalt dream Should be a glimpse of heavenly things, For yonder like a seraph sings       The sweetness of a life     With faith alway its theme; While speedeth from those realms above The messenger of that dear love         That healeth sorrow.     So sleep a little while,       For thou shalt wake and sing       Before thy King         When cometh the morrow.
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