When the daylight grows pleasant and late;

In our own cosy cot, I am waiting

For the slam of the little front gate.

The birds at the doorway are singing,

The roses their beauty debate;

But I sit here alone, and I listen

For the slam of the little front gate.

Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight

Send the roving bird home to its mate,

I list for a hurrying footstep,

And the slam of the little front gate.

O! you who are burdened with sorrow,

And believe that life is but fate,

Learn from me there is joy in waiting

For the slam of the little front gate.

O’er the billows of life’s tide;

You and I have sailed together,

With our frail barks side by side.

You are drifting with the current,

But my feeble oar is light,

Too light to follow; and, in anguish,

I must watch you drift from sight.

Drifting, gliding, moving onward,

Tide and sky seem one deep blue;

All in vain my eyes are yearning,

You have drifted from my view.

But there’s yet a broader current,

Where our meeting barks will land;

You and I still bound together,

Heart to heart, and hand to hand.