Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the question that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern window,
That look towards the sun,
Where thought are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts 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 more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the 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 wind are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contriving,
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.
This poem was written by " Henry Longfellow ". He was born in 1807. He was a American poet. He was a professor at the " Harvard University "and he died in 1882.
Comments
Post a Comment