"COME to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions which have vexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the Eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of Morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklets flow;
But in mine 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 more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear,
What the birds and the wind 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 gladness 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!"