Classic Poem

Hither, thither, little feet
Patter on the floor;
Still am I in my retreat,
Hid behind the door.

If my hiding-place is guessed,
Comes a gleeful cry;
But if vain should be the quest,
There are tears to dry.

In the House of Life, my dear,
All is not so fair;
Happiness is hiding here,
Sorrow hiding there.

May the gods your life endow
From their boundless store!
May you always find, as now,
Love behind the door.