MY BOY.
111
The heavenly flowers bloom always,
The skies are always bright,
And all the little children
Play there from morn till night.
The skies are always bright,
And all the little children
Play there from morn till night.
But do they never weary,
And long to go to rest
Like little human children
Upon a mother's breast?
And long to go to rest
Like little human children
Upon a mother's breast?
My home and arms are empty,
My 1onging heart is sore,
Since they who sought the summer
Come back to me no more.
My 1onging heart is sore,
Since they who sought the summer
Come back to me no more.
How softly falls the twilight,—
The sunset fires are out:
A wind that comes from Heaven
Blows slowly round about.
The sunset fires are out:
A wind that comes from Heaven
Blows slowly round about.
