I think ofttimes, as the night draws nigh,
Of an old house on the hill,
Of a yard all wide and blossom-starred,
Where the children played at will;
And when the night at last came down,
Hushing the merry din,
Mother would look around and ask,
“ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN?”
’Tis many and many a year since then,
And the old house on the hill
No longer echoes to childish feet,
And the yard is still, so still;
And though many the years
Have been since then,
I can still hear my mother ask,
“ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN?”
I wonder if when the shadows fall
On the last, short, earthly day,
When we say good-bye to the world outside,
All tired with our childish play,
When we step out into that Other Land,
Where mother so long has been,
Will we hear her ask, just as of old,
“ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN?”
Anon.