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 We should dread the desert behind us xiv CHILDREN. What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, That to the world are children; 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, Ye are better than all the ballads And all the rest are dead. LONGFELLOW. |