Children
Автор книги Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Время прослушивания 00:56,
Дата публикации
Средний уровень
Дом, семья, друзья
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Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me.
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows.
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn.
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah!
what would the world be to us.
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us.
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices.
Have been hardened into wood.
