CHILDREN, ye have not lived, to you it seems br Life is a lovely stalactite of dreams, br Or carnival of careless joys that leap br About your hearts like billows on the deep br In flames of amber and of amethyst. br br br Children, ye have not lived, ye but exist br Till some resistless hour shall rise and move br Your hearts to wake and hunger after love, br And thirst with passionate longing for the things br That burn your brows with blood-red sufferings. br br br Till ye have battled with great grief and fears, br And borne the conflict of dream-shattering years, br Wounded with fierce desire and worn with strife, br Children, ye have not lived: for this is life.