The clock strikes seven in the hall,
⁠The curfew of the children's day,
That calls each little pattering foot
⁠From dance and song and livelong play;
Their day that in our wider light
Floats like a silver day-moon white,
Nor in our darkness sinks to rest,
But sets within a golden west.

Ah, tender hour that sends a drift
⁠Of children's kisses through the house,
And cuckoo-notes of sweet "Good night,"
⁠That thoughts of heaven and home arouse;
And a soft stir to sense and heart.
As when the bee and blossom part;
And little feet that patter slower.
Like the last droppings of the shower.

And in the children's rooms aloft
⁠What blossom shapes do gaily slip
Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run
⁠From clasping hand and kissing lip,
A naked sweetness to the eye, —
Blossom and babe and butterfly
In witching one, so dear a sight!
An ecstasy of life and light.

And, ah, what lovely witcheries
⁠Bestrew the floor! an empty sock,
By vanished dance and song left loose
⁠As dead birds' throats; a tiny smock
That, sure, upon some meadow grew,
And drank the heaven-sweet rains; a shoe
Scarce bigger than an acorn cup;
Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up.

Then lily-drest in angel-white
⁠To mother's knee they trooping come,
The soft palms fold like kissing shells.
⁠And they and we go singing home, —
Their bright heads bowed and worshipping.
As though some glory of the spring.
Some daffodil that mocks the day.
Should fold his golden palms and pray.

The gates of Paradise swing wide
⁠A moment's space in soft accord,
And those dread angels. Life and Death,
⁠A moment vail the flaming sword.
As o'er this weary world forlorn
From Eden's secret heart is borne
That breath of Paradise most fair.
Which mothers call "the children's prayer."

Ah, deep pathetic mystery!
⁠The world's great woe unconscious hung,
A rain-drop on a blossom's lip;
⁠White innocence that woos our wrong,
And Love divine that looks again,
Unconscious of the cross and pain,
From sweet child-eyes, and in that child
Sad earth and heaven reconciled.

Then kissed, on beds we lay them down,
⁠As fragrant-white as clover'd sod.
And all the upper floors grow hushed
⁠With children's sleep, and dews of God.
And as our stars their beams do hide.
The stars of twilight, opening wide,
Take up the heavenly tale at even,
And light us on to God and heaven.

Sing me a song of Summer,
⁠For my heart is wintry sad.
That glorious, bright new-comer,
⁠Who makes all nature glad!
Sing me a song of Summer,
⁠That the dark from the bright may borrow,
And the part in the radiant whole of things
⁠May drown its little sorrow!

Sing me a song of Summer,
⁠When God walks forth in light,
And spreads his glowing mantle
⁠O'er the blank and the grey of the night;
And where he comes, his quickening touch
⁠Revives the insensate dead.
And the numbed and frozen pulse of things
⁠Beats music to his tread.

Sing me a song of Summer,
⁠With his banners of golden bloom,
That glorious, bright new-comer.
⁠Who bears bleak winter's doom!
With banners of gold and of silver.
⁠And wings of rosy display.
And verdurous power in his path.
⁠When he comes in the pride of the May.

When he comes with his genial sweep
⁠O'er the barren and bare of the scene,
And makes the stiff earth to wave
⁠With an ocean of undulant green;
With flourish of leafy expansion.
⁠And boast of luxuriant bloom,
And the revel of life as it triumphs
⁠O'er the dust and decay of the tomb.

Sing me a song of Summer;
⁠O God! what a glorious thing
Is the march of this mighty new-comer
⁠With splendour of joy on his wing!
When he quickens the pulse of creation.
⁠And maketh all feebleness strong.
Till it spread into blossoms of beauty.
⁠And burst into paeans of song!

Sing me a song of Summer!
⁠Though my heart be wintry and sad,
The thought of this blessed new-comer
⁠Shall foster the germ of the glad.
'Neath the veil of my grief let me cherish
⁠The joy that shall rush into day.
When the bane of the winter shall perish
⁠In the pride and the power of the May.