A CHILD'S THANKS

How low soe'er men rank us,

How high soe'er we win,

The children far above us

Dwell, and they deign to love us,

With lovelier love than ours,

And smiles more sweet than flowers;

As though the sun should thank us

For letting light come in.

With too divine complaisance,

Whose grace misleads them thus,

Being gods, in heavenly blindness

They call our worship kindness,

Our pebble-gift a gem:

They think us good to them,

Whose glance, whose breath, whose presence,

Are gifts too good for us.

The poet high and hoary

Of meres that mountains bind

Felt his great heart more often

Yearn, and its proud strength soften

From stern to tenderer mood,

At thought of gratitude

Shown than of song or story

He heard of hearts unkind.

But with what words for token

And what adoring tears

Of reverence risen to passion,

In what glad prostrate fashion

Of spirit and soul subdued,

May man show gratitude

For thanks of children spoken

That hover in his ears?

The angels laugh, your brothers,

Child, hearing you thank me,

With eyes whence night grows sunny,

And touch of lips like honey,

And words like honey-dew:

But how shall I thank you?

For gifts above all others

What guerdon-gift may be?

What wealth of words caressing,

What choice of songs found best,

Would seem not as derision,

Found vain beside the vision

And glory from above

Shown in a child's heart's love?

His part in life is blessing;

Ours, only to be blest.