  WHAT is it like, I wonder, to roam Down through the tall grass hidden quite? To feel very far away from home When the dear house is out of sight? To want to play with the broken moon In the star garden of the skies? To sleep through twilight eves of June Beneath the sound of lullabies? To hold up hurts for all to see, Sob at imaginary harms, To clasp in welcome a father’s knee, And fit so well to a mother’s arms? To have life bounded by one dull road, A wood and a pond, and to feel no lack, To gaze with pleasure upon a toad, And caress a mud-turtle’s horny back? To follow the robin’s cheerful hop With all the salt small hands can hold, What is it like to be three years old? Ah, once I knew, but ’twas long ago; I try to recall it in vain—in vain! And now I know I shall never know What it is to be a child again. |
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