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COME to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
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,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
Ah! what would the world be to us
What the leaves are to the forest,
That to the world are children;
Come to me, 0 ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
For what are all our contrivings,
Ye are better than all the ballads
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.