"Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread And he wandered away and away And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold; And the mother at home says, "Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" CHILDREN. COME to me, O ye children! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. Ye open the eastern windows, Where thoughts are singing swallows And the brooks of morning run. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, 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, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood, That to the world are children; Than reaches the trunks below. 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 For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. |