The sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night; And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”; He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: “Sleep, little one, sleep.” On yonder mountain-side a vine Clings at the foot of a mother pine; The tree bends over the trembling thing, And only the vine can hear her sing: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep-- What shall you fear when I am here? Sleep, little one, sleep.” The king may sing in his bitter flight, The tree may croon to the vine to-night, But the little snowflake at my breast Liketh the song _I_ sing the best-- Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; Weary thou art, a-next my heart Sleep, little one, sleep. GRANDMA’S PRAYER I pray that, risen from the dead, I may in glory stand-- A crown, perhaps, upon my head, But a needle in my hand. I’ve never learned to sing or play, So let no harp be mine; From birth unto my dying day, Plain sewing’s been my line. Therefore, accustomed to the end To plying useful stitches, I’ll be content if asked to mend The little angels’ breeches. SOME TIME Last night, my darling, as you slept, I thought I heard you sigh, And to your little crib I crept, And watched a space thereby; Then, bending down, I kissed your brow-- For, oh! I love you so-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know. Some time, when, in a darkened place Where others come to weep, Your eyes shall see a weary face Calm in eternal sleep; The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, The patient smile may show-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know. Look backward, then, into the years, And see me here to-night-- See, O my darling! how my tears Are falling as I write; And feel once more upon your brow The kiss of long ago-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know. THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST As I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day, I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way; I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to me That elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be! The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs-- High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings, But not so high as when a little boy I did my best To scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!