A book of English poetry; ed. by T. Shorter

'bilbrm.

CoX11 to m~, 0 ye children I

l'or I bear y ou at your pllly,

And the questions that perplu\ 1 nto

Have vo.ni.eh'd quite away.

Ye open the eutern windows,

That l ook townrcla the ~ron,

Where thoughts are singing &wallowa

And the brook.& of morning run.

In your h~arta nre the birde nnd the wnahine,

In youT thoughts the brooklet'e flow ;

But in mine ie the wincl of autumn,

And the first fall oC the anow.

Ah I whnt would the world be to ua

If the Children were no more 1

We 1hould dr ead the deaert hehind Ul

Worse than the dark before.

Wbnt the lea vee Rre to the forest.

With light and air for food,

Ere their sweet and tender juice~~

Have been harden'd into wood,-

Thnt to the world are Children ;

Through them it fePlB the glow

or a brighter and sunnier eli mate

Than ruches the trunks below.

Come to me, 0 ye Children I

And whisper in my ear

What the bi1-ds and the winds are ainging

In y our sunny atmosphere.

For what are nil onr oontrivinp,

And t.be wisdom of our book~,

When compared wit.h your enrcaaea,

And the gladneaa of your looks 1

Ye nre better than all the ballada

That ever were wog or eaid ;

For ye are living poems,

And all the :rea~ are dead. Lo111onu.ow.