  Child, when they say that others Have been or are like you, Babes fit to be your brothers, Sweet human drops of dew, Bright fruit of mortal mothers, What should one say or do? We know the thought is treason, We feel the dream absurd; A claim rebuked of reason, That withers at a word: For never shone the season That bore so blithe a bird. Some smiles may seem as merry, Some glances gleam as wise, From lips as like a cherry And scarce less gracious eyes; Eyes browner than a berry, Lips red as morning's rise. But never yet rang laughter So sweet in gladdened ears Through wall and floor and rafter As all this household hears And rings response thereafter Till cloudiest weather clears. Whose honey never cloys, Two lights whose smiles enthrall men, Were called at your age boys, Those mighty men, while small men, Could make no merrier noise. Our Shakespeare, surely, daffed not More lightly pain aside From radiant lips that quaffed not Of forethought's tragic tide: Our Dickens, doubtless, laughed not More loud with life's first pride. The dawn were not more cheerless With neither light nor dew Than we without the fearless Clear laugh that thrills us through: If ever child stood peerless, Love knows that child is you. |
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