No toys in this first chest remain , For all are carried away , In their old age , to join again In another small Meg 's play . Ah , happy mother ! Well I know You hear , like a sweet refrain , Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain . `` Jo '' on the next lid , scratched and worn , And within a motley store Of headless dolls , of schoolbooks torn , Birds and beasts that speak no more , Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet , Dreams of a future never found , Memories of a past still sweet , Half-writ poems , stories wild , April letters , warm and cold , Diaries of a wilful child , Hints of a woman early old , A woman in a lonely home , Hearing , like a sad refrain -- `` Be worthy , love , and love will come , '' In the falling summer rain . My Beth ! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name , As if by loving eyes that wept , By careful hands that often came . Death canonized for us one saint , Ever less human than divine , And still we lay , with tender plaint , Relics in this household shrine -- The silver bell , so seldom rung , The little cap which last she wore , The fair , dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door . The songs she sang , without lament , In her prison-house of pain , Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain . Upon the last lid 's polished field -- Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield , `` Amy '' in letters gold and blue . Within lie snoods that bound her hair , Slippers that have danced their last , Faded flowers laid by with care , Fans whose airy toils are past , Gay valentines , all ardent flames , Trifles that have borne their part In girlish hopes and fears and shames , The record of a maiden heart Now learning fairer , truer spells , Hearing , like a blithe refrain , The silver sound of bridal bells In the falling summer rain . Four little chests all in a row , Dim with dust , and worn by time , Four women , taught by weal and woe To love and labor in their prime . Four sisters , parted for an hour , None lost , one only gone before , Made by love 's immortal power , Nearest and dearest evermore . Oh , when these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father 's sight , May they be rich in golden hours , Deeds that show fairer for the light , Lives whose brave music long shall ring , Like a spirit-stirring strain , Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain . `` It 's very bad poetry , but I felt it when I wrote it , one day when I was very lonely , and had a good cry on a rag bag . I never thought it would go where it could tell tales , '' said Jo , tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long . `` Let it go , it has done its duty , and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets , '' said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind . `` Yes , '' he added earnestly , `` I read that , and I think to myself , She has a sorrow , she is lonely , she would find comfort in true love . I haf a heart full , full for her . Shall I not go and say , ` If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive , take it in Gott 's name ? ' '' `` And so you came to find that it was not too poor , but the one precious thing I needed , '' whispered Jo .
`` I had no courage to think that at XXXXX , heavenly kind as was your welcome to me .
Beth Gott Jo Lullabies Professor day first gif hour labor