江苏大学江帆网
2018年01月17日,星期三

Children


Come to me, O ye[1] children!  
For I hear you at your play,  
And the questions that perplexed 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 brooklet's 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. 
What the leaves are to the forest,  
With light and air for food,  
Ere[2] 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  
Than reaches the trunks below. 
Come to me, O ye children!  
And whisper in my ear  
What the birds and the winds are singing  
In your sunny atmosphere. 
For what are all our contrivings[3],  
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.