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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=391061" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To emma abbott</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=391061" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">There--let thy hands be folded<br> Awhile in sleep's repose;<br>The patient hands that wearied not,<br>But earnestly and nobly wrought<br> In charity and faith;<br> And let thy dear eyes close--<br>The eyes that looked alway to God,<br>Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod<br> Of sorrow;<br>Fold thou thy hands and eyes<br> For just a little while,<br> And with a smile<br> Dream of the morrow.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=391061" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And, O white voiceless flower,<br> The dream which thou shalt dream<br>Should be a glimpse of heavenly things,<br>For yonder like a seraph sings<br> The sweetness of a life<br> With faith alway its theme;<br>While speedeth from those realms above<br>The messenger of that dear love<br> That healeth sorrow.<br> So sleep a little while,<br> For thou shalt wake and sing<br> Before thy King<br> When cometh the morrow.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Eugene+Field">Eugene Field</a></strong></div>

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