Classic Poem

Who are these pilgrims, eager-eyed,
One sees on every hand,
Like travelers who have wandered wide
Now in their chosen land?

Their pleading looks have power to pry
The rich man's safe apart;
The frosts, before their laughter, fly
Off from the farmer's heart.

True little missionaries they,
Who journey up and down,
And bind in closer sympathy
The country and the town.

For children scatter blessings
Ever — since they were blessed —
And their unconscious sermons
Excel the preacher's best.

God sets a little child above
The sage of deepest sense;
Not what we know, but what we love,
Is Heavenly Evidence.