I think oftimes, as the night draws nigh,
Of an old home on a hill,
Of a yard all wide and blossom-starred
Where the children played at will;
And when the night at last came down,
Hushing the merry din,
Mother would look around and ask,
"Are all the children in?'

"Tis many and many a year since then,
And the old house on the hill
No longer echoes to childish feet,
And the yard is still, so still;
But I see it all as the shadows creep,
And tho' many the years have been,
Since then I can still hear mother ask,
"Are all the children in?"

I wonder if when the shadows fall
On the last short, earthly day,
When we say good-bye to the world outside,
All tired with our childish play;
When we step out into that Other Land,
Where mother so long has been,
Will we hear her ask, just as of old -
"Are all the children in?"