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“Come, wander with me,” she said,
In the manuscripts of God.”
And he wandered away and away
The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.
So she keeps him still a child,
Though at times his heart beats wild
Though at times he hears in his dreams
From glaciers clear and cold;
And the mother at home says, “Hark!
It is growing late and dark,
CoME to me, O ye children'
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
Ah! what would the world be to us
We should dread the desert behind us
What the leaves are to the forest,
Have been hardened into wood,
That to the world are children;
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children'
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
For ye are living poems,