Be patient. . .

This poem was taken from a good book by R. T. Cross.

If we knew the little fingers
Pressed against the window pane,
Would be cold and stiff tomorrow,
Never trouble us again,-
Would the bright eyes of our darling
Catch the frown upon our brow?
Would the prints of rosy fingers
Vex us then, as they do now?

Ah! those little ice cold fingers-
How they point our memories back
To the hasty words and actions
Strewn along our backward track!
How those little hands remind us,
As in snowy grace they lie,
Not to scatter thorns, but roses,
For our reaping by and by.