  We are not lovers, you and I, Upon this sunny lane, But children who have never known Love's joy or pain. The flowers we pass, the summer brook, The bird that o'er us darts— We do not know 'tis they that thrill Our childish hearts. The earth-things have no name for us, The ploughing means no more Than that they like to walk the fields Who plough them o'er. The road, the wood, the heaven, the hills Are not a World to-day— But just a place God's made for us In which to play. |
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