Children
Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And th questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun
Where thoughts are singing swallaows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your throughts the brooklet's flow,
But in my mind is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no mere?
We should dread the deseart behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves ere to thr forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
that reaches the trunk below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladnesss of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
-Henry Longfellow
0 Comments