Children, my children, the daylight is breaking,
The cymbals of moon sound the hour of your waking.
The long night is o'er, and our labor is ended.
Fair blow the fields that we tilled and we tended.
Weak were our hands, but our service was tender,
In darkness we dreamed of the dawn of yon splendor;
In silence we strove for the joy of the morrow,
And watered the seeds from the wells of our sorrow.
We toiled to enrich the glad hour of your waking,
Our vigil is done,—lo, the daylight is breaking.
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