AT NIGHT.
THE little weary, winged bees
Give up their honey-quest,
And all the little singing birds
Fly home and go to rest.
The butterflies fold up at last
Their shining golden crowns;
And daisies, in their wee white caps,
Sleep on the dewy downs.
The cattle, with their tinkling bells,
Come home across the wold,
And you're the only little lamb
That's left without the fold.
Then come, my darling, it is time
Thou, too, shouldst find thy rest,
The violet's eyes, as blue as thine,
Droop on each dewy breast.
Then haste, before the stars climb up
The blue wall of the skies;
For sure you would not let them see
Such drooping little eyes.