1. Come, lay his books and papers by, He shall not need them more; The ink shall dry upon his pen, So softly close the door. His tired head, with locks of white, And like the winter’s sun Hath lain to peaceful rest tonight,— The teacher’s work is done.
2. His work is done; no care tonight His tranquil rest shall break; Sweet dreams, and with the morning light, On other shores he’ll wake. His noble thoughts; his wise appeal, His works that battles won;— But God doth know the loss we feel,— The teacher’s work is done.
3. We feel it, while we miss the hand That made us brave to bear; Perchance in that near-touching land His work did wait him there. Perchance, when death its change hath wrought, And this brief race is run, His voice again shall teach, who thought The teacher’s work was done.