As children bid the guest good-night,
And then reluctant turn,
My flowers raise their pretty lips,
Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake,
Merry that it is morn,
My flowers from a hundred cribs...
* * *
When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And whisperings are in the dale,
The [desires del.] days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green & pale.
Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise;
...