The little angels of Heaven
Each wear a long white dress,
And in the tall arcadings
Play ball and play at chess;
With never a soil on their garments,
Not a sigh the whole day long,
Not a bitter note in their pleasure,
Not a bitter note in their song.
But they shall know keener pleasure,
And they shall know joy more rare—
Keener, keener pleasure
When you, my dear, come there.
The little angels of Heaven
Each wear a long white gown,
And they lean over the ramparts
Waiting and looking down.