The door of Heaven is on the latch
To-night, and many a one is fain
To go home for one's night's watch
With his love again.
Oh, where the father and mother sit
There's a drift of dead leaves at the door
Like pitter-patter of little feet
That come no more.
Their thoughts are in the night and cold,
Their tears are heavier than the clay,
But who is this at the threshold
So young and gay?
They are come from the land o' the young,
They have forgotten how to weep;
Words of comfort on the tongue,
And a kiss to keep.
They sit down and they stay awhile,
Kisses and comfort none shall lack;
At morn they steal forth with a smile
And a long look back.
_Owen Seaman_
One of the most delightful of English versifiers, Owen Seaman, was
born in 1861. After receiving a classical education, he became
Professor of Literature and began to write for Punch in 1894. In 1906
he was made editor of that internationally famous weekly, remaining in
that capacity ever since. He was knighted in 1914. As a writer of
light verse and as a parodist, his agile work has delighted a
generation of admirers. Some of his most adroit lines may be found in
his _In Cap and Bells_ (1902) and _The Battle of the Bays_ (1892).