  O blossoming lives that to the fruits Now ripened for the gathering in, Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuits Touched the new soul with taint of sin, We who now watch you at your game, We, weary of the toil and strife, Must envy you your scorn of fame, Your eager, loving trust in life. Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, piles His blocks unsteadily in air, May yet a minster build, whose aisles Shall echo to a nation’s prayer. Perchance, the child that scarce can tell The letters on his cubes of wood, May yet with a poetic spell Charm and uplift the multitude. They question not, they only live To pluck the blossoms of each hour. Ambition frets them not, they give No thought to pomp or place or power. We too have toys, and we pursue Our trivial aims; we rage and sigh Because our blocks are built askew, And our best hopes in ruins lie. Yet over us, as over these, A teacher watches, true and kind, Striving to guide our fantasies, And patient with the groping mind. From flower of wisdom unto flower He leads us, as these babes are led, Till chimes, at last, the closing hour, The prizes won, the lessons said. And happy he who in this school Of life, that fits the soul for death, Has learned to serve as well as rule, And speak for truth with every breath. |
|
