Come to me, O ye children! br For I hear you at your play, br And the questions that perplexed me br Have vanished quite away. br br Ye open the eastern windows, br That look towards the sun, br Where thoughts are singing swallows br And the brooks of morning run. br br In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, br In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, br But in mine is the wind of Autumn br And the first fall of the snow. br br Ah! what would the world be to us br If the children were no more? br We should dread the desert behind us br Worse than the dark before. br br What the leaves are to the forest, br With light and air for food, br Ere their sweet and tender juices br Have been hardened into wood, -- br br That to the world are children; br Through them it feels the glow br Of a brighter and sunnier climate br Than reaches the trunks below. br br Come to me, O ye children! br And whisper in my ear br What the birds and the winds are singing br In your sunny atmosphere. br br For what are all our contrivings, br And the wisdom of our books, br When compared with your caresses, br And the gladness of your looks? br br Ye are better than all the ballads br That ever were sung or said; br For ye are living poems, br And all the rest are dead.