An old man sits by the river's brink—
Like an old horse come to the river to drink—
A dry-rot man on a dry-rot log;
And all is still save the croaking frog,
While the withered leaves, that recall the dead,
Fall down on the stream from the boughs o'erhead,
And floating away on the flowing tide,
Like lives on the river of time, they glide
From the present out into the by-and-by,
Where the river runs into the sunset sky.

He recalls his youth: sees a boy at play
In the barefoot time of the yesterday;
And, smacking his lips, he plucks with glee,
Sweet grapes from the vines of memory;
And the silent river keeps flowing on,
While he sips the wine of the past and gone.

He knew when that log was a thrifty tree,
With its crooked trunk, like a bended knee;
Where he fished with playfellows many a day;
And here he lingers, but where are they?
How many are living? How many are dead?
And the sere leaves fall from the boughs o'erhead,
While the answer comes from the croaking frog
To the dry-rot man on the dry-rot log.
He tries to remember some glorious deed
Which shall earn for him an eternal meed:—
Though countless actions he may recall,
Come none but little ones, after all;
Till half discouraged he falls asleep
On the bank of the river so broad and deep;
On the dry-rot log by the water's brim;
On the dry-rot log that is like to him.

On the trail of sleep there follows a dream
Wherein he, like the sere leaf on the stream,
From the present floats into the by-and-by,
Where the river runs into the sunset sky;
While angels come down to the horizon brim,
Down out of the glory to welcome him;
With their wings aglow and their faces fair;
With their white robes trailing the golden stair
That leads from the pearly gates on high,
Through the opal tints of the cumuli,
Down to the horizon's rosy brim;
And thus they speak as they welcome him—
With the psalm of life in their rustling wings:—
“We are the angels of little things!”

Each one on her girdle seems to bear
A name that glory had written there:—
One is a speech that was simply kind;
One is a song that had cheered the blind.
Here is a rose that had brought much joy
To the lonely life of a crippled boy!
There is a smile that prevented strife
And changed the trend of a human life!
Here is a kiss by the world forgot
On the brow of death at a soldier's cot!

Yonder a face that had often smiled
On the homeless waif and the orphan child!
Here is a foot that had weary grown
Seeking the weal of the world's unknown!
There the hand that had plucked the thorn
From the brow of shame, in the face of scorn!
But the brightest of all in that land of joy
Was a mother's tear for her wayward boy
That had dropped in a plea bereft of art:
The silent prayer of a broken heart.

The dreamer speaks to the angels there:
“Since you are so beautiful, and so fair
As angels of little things, pray you, tell
Where do the angels of great things dwell?”

“There are none greater, except it be
That even the least are greater than we!
The King of Glory hath never a need
That mortals perform some wonderful deed.
Ofttimes the deed which a man deems great
In the scales of Heaven has little weight!
While one that may seem unto him so small
In the light of glory outshines them all!”
The dreamer is charmed, and fain would stay
In the light and the love and the life alway,
Where the angels give such welcome to him;
So he comes not back to the river's brim;

And the dry-rot man, on the dry-rot log,
Heeds not the song of the croaking frog,
Nor the breeze that lifts his thin white hair,
Nor those who come to waken him there,
Nor the withered leaves, how fast they fall;
For the vision is not a dream after all,
But a thing with eternal glory rife:—
For the sleep is Death; but the dream is Life!