The mother-heart doth yearn at eventide, And, wheresoe’er the straying ones may roam, When even cometh on they all fare home. ’Neath feathered sheltering the brood doth hide; In eager flights the birds wing to their nest, While happy lambs and children miss the sun, And to the folds do hurtle one by one, As night doth gather slowly in the west. All ye who hurry through life’s busy day, Hark to the greeting that the Ages tell, “The sun doth rise and set, hail and farewell.” But comfort ye your heart where’er ye stray, For those who through this little day do roam, When even cometh on shall all fare home.
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