When all the West is fold on fold Of red, and clouds are tipped with gold, And cows come winding o'er the flats, And like swift shadows flit the bats, And the winds from the South are cool, As they had breathed across a pool To bring its cooling touch to you, And blossoms lift to meet the dew, And children come outdoors to play, Then cares of life are put away. Then cares and griefs are put aside; And all the world so big and wide Seems just a blossomed romping place Where little children laugh and race And blow rose petals in the air, And twine white clovers in their hair, And finally, at sleepy time, Come to your side, arms up, to climb Into your lap and settle down For the sweet trip to Slumbertown. Then, when the cows are at the bars, And all the sky is blinking stars, And the moonflowers, big and white. Come out, backgrounded by the night, That is life's glad and holy time! And little folks who come to climb Into your lap, hear the low notes Of mother's song, and fairy boats Drift into an enchanted strand To carry them to Slumberland. |