| |
| I CANNOT reach it; and my striving eye | |
| Dazzles at it, as at eternity. | |
| |
| Were now that chronicle alive, | |
| Those white designs which children drive, | |
| And the thoughts of each harmless hour, | 5 |
| With their content too in my pow’r, | |
| Quickly would I make my path ev’n, | |
| And by mere playing go to heaven. | |
| |
| Why should men love | |
| A wolf, more than a lamb or dove? | 10 |
| Or choose hell-fire and brimstone steams | |
| Before bright stars and God’s own beams? | |
| Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, | |
| But flowers do both refresh and grace; | |
| And sweetly living—fie on men!— | 15 |
| Are, when dead, medicinal then; | |
| If seeing much should make staid eyes, | |
| And long experience should make wise; | |
| Since all that age doth teach is ill, | |
| Why should I not love childhood still? | 20 |
| Why, if I see a rock or shelf, | |
| Shall I from thence cast down myself? | |
| Or by complying with the world, | |
| From the same precipice be hurled? | |
| Those observations are but foul, | 25 |
| Which make me wise to lose my soul. | |
| |
| And yet the practice worldlings call | |
| Business, and weighty action all, | |
| Checking the poor child for his play, | |
| But gravely cast themselves away. | 30 |
| |
| Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span | |
| Where weeping virtue parts with man; | |
| Where love without lust dwells, and bends | |
| What way we please without self-ends. | |
| |
| An age of mysteries! which he | 35 |
| Must live twice that would God’s face see; | |
| Which angels guard, and with it play, | |
| Angels! which foul men drive away. | |
| |
| How do I study now, and scan | |
| Thee more than e’er I studied man, | 40 |
| And only see through a long night | |
| Thy edges and thy bordering light! | |
| O for thy centre and midday! | |
| For sure that is the narrow way! | |
| |
