A Blessing for the Blessed

When the sun has left the hill-top

And the daisy fringe is furled,

When the birds from wood and meadow

In their hidden nests are curled,

Then I think of all the babies

That are sleeping in the world.

There are babies in the high lands

And babies in the low,

There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins

On the margin of the snow,

And brown ones naked in the isles

Where all the spices grow.

And some are in the palace

On a white and downy bed,

And some are in the garret

With a clout beneath their head,

And some are on the cold hard earth,

Whose mothers have no bread.

O little men and women,

Dear flowers yet unblown—

O little kings and beggars

Of the pageant yet unshown—

Sleep soft and dream pale dreams now,

To-morrow is your own.