Classic Poem

Now the beauty of the thing when childher plays is
The terrible wonderful length the days is.
Up you jumps, and out in the sun,
And you fancy the day will never be done;
And you're chasin' the bumbees hummin' so cross
In the hot sweet air among the goss,
Or gath'rin' blue-bells, or lookin' for eggs,
Or peltin' the ducks, with their yalla legs,
Or a climbin' and nearly breakin' your skulls,
Or a shoutin' for divilment after the gulls,
Or a thinkin' of nothin', but down at the tide,
Singin' out for the happy you feel inside.


That was all—just baby play,
Knockin' about the boats all day,
And sometimes a lot of us takin' hands
And racin' like mad things over the sands.
Ah! it wouldn' be bad for some of us
If we'd never gone furder, and never fared wuss;
If we'd never grown up, and never got big,
If we'd never took the brandy swig,
If we were skippin' and scamp'rin' and cap'rin' still
On the sand that lies below the hill,
Crunchin' its gray ribs with the beat
Of our little patterin' naked feet:
If we'd just kept childher upon the shore
For ever and ever and ever more!


That's the way with the kids, you know,
And the years do come and the years do go,
And when you look back it's all like a puff,
Happy and over and short enough!