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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
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
your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
Ye are better than all the ballads
And all the rest are dead.