When the children are asleep,
And the early stars retire,
What a pleasant world comes back
In the toil of day forgot;
And the shadows of the past
How they gather round the fire
With the friends beloved in years,
When the fear of death was not.
Then we see the haw thorn hedge
Newly silvered o'er by May,
And the ash tree lithe and tall,
Where the mavis loved to sing;
And the orchard on the slope,
With its rosy apples gay;
And the elder dark with fruit
That was mirrored in the spring,
When the children are asleep.
And the angels of our youth,
That so long in death are cold,
They are calling us again
With their voices mild and low,
Till our minds refuse to dwell
By the coffin in the mould,
And arise with them to heaven,
Where in glory they are now--
And arise with them to heaven.
Then with thoughts at rest at eve,
Be so ever hard the day,
On our spirits cometh down,
A contentment calm and deep,
A better than the joys
Of the noisy and the gay,
Is our quiet hour of dreams,
When the children are asleep.