by Winifred Sackville Stoner, Jr.
Of all the hours of day or night
Give me the twilight hour,
When little birds hide out of sight
And every sylvan bower
Is filled with their sweet good night song,
While darkness creeps apace
O'er all the bright blue sky along
And hides the sun's gold face.
That is the hour when Mother dear
Says, "Come, sweetheart," to me,
"And of the earth's great heroes hear
While sitting on my knee."
Upon her arm I rest my hand
And wondrous stories hear,
Until it's time to go to bed,
Tucked in by Mother dear.