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IN the pleasant path of childhood, where flowers grace the way, And the buds of promise bursting every hour; Heart and mind are reaching forward which charming fancy paint In the clover-fields of sweetness or the bower. The breezes kiss the temples and rock the giant trees: On each their sweet compassion would bestow; They touch the tender flowers, where bees the nectar sip; Little reapers, though they plow not, neither sow. The birds with charming plumage may flutter through the trees And gladden every hearer in their praise; Their notes weave into garlands, which the summer-time of youth May gather all along the sunlit ways. But the light canoes of pleasure that on the surface float, While charming to the senses and the eyes, Are quite too light for safety and the world has often seen With sorrow, many little craft capsize. Through all the ways of pleasure there is much that is not joy Which after years of study, one may find And oft the buds of sweetness, inviting covert touch, May leave a sting for body and for mind. The test of love is duty, the way substantial, as I see, While pleasure may be likened to a toy; But the harvest in the autumn, when the golden grain is ripe Is the index to the volume, clasped with Joy. |