When Day is Done
This is a poetry book. We little guessed how much he did to smooth our pathway day by day, How much of joy he brought to us, how much of care he brushed away; But now that we must tread alone the thorough-fare of life, we find How many burdens we were spared by him who was so brave and kind. Death robs the living, not the dead--they sweetly sleep whose tasks are done; But we are weaker than before who still must live and labor on. For when come care and grief to us, and heavy burdens bring us woe, We miss the smiling, helpful friends on whom we leaned long years ago. We miss the happy, tender ways of those who brought us mirth and cheer; We never gather round the hearth but that we wish our friends were near; For peace is born of simple things--a kindly word, a goodnight kiss, The prattle of a babe, and love--these are the vanished joys we miss.