Childhood
I
cannot
reach
it;
and
my
striving
eye
Dazzles
at
it,
as
at
eternity.
Were
now
that
chronicle
alive,
Those
white
designs
which
children
drive,
And
the
thoughts
of
each
harmless
hour,
With
their
content,
too,
in
my
power,
Quickly
would
I
make
my
path
even,
And
by
mere
playing
go
to
heaven.
Why
should
men
love
A
wolf
more
than
a
lamb
or
dove?
Or
choose
hell-fire
and
brimstone
streams
Before
bright
stars
and
God's
own
beams?
Who
kisseth
thorns
will
hurt
his
face,
But
flowers
do
both
refresh
and
grace,
And
sweetly
living
—
fie
on
men!
—
Are,
when
dead,
medicinal
then;
If
seeing
much
should
make
staid
eyes,
And
long
experience
should
make
wise,
Since
all
that
age
doth
teach
is
ill,
Why
should
I
not
love
childhood
still?
Why,
if
I
see
a
rock
or
shelf,
Shall
I
from
thence
cast
down
myself?
Or
by
complying
with
the
world,
From
the
same
precipice
be
hurled?
Those
observations
are
but
foul
Which
make
me
wise
to
lose
my
soul.
And
yet
the
practice
worldlings
call
Business,
and
weighty
action
all,
Checking
the
poor
child
for
his
play,
But
gravely
cast
themselves
away.
Dear,
harmless
age!
the
short,
swift
span
Where
weeping
Virtue
parts
with
man;
Where
love
without
lust
dwells,
and
bends
What
way
we
please
without
self-ends.
An
age
of
mysteries!
which
he
Must
live
twice
that
would
God's
face
see;
Which
angels
guard,
and
with
it
play,
Angels!
which
foul
men
drive
away.
How
do
I
study
now,
and
scan
Thee
more
than
e'er
I
studied
man,
And
only
see
through
a
long
night
Thy
edges
and
thy
bordering
light!
Oh
for
thy
center
and
midday!
For
sure
that
is
the
narrow
way!
