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. |