We were children when we thought
That the heavens were very near,
And that all our mothers taught
Would to-morrow be made clear;
When we questioned everywhere,
Dreading not a full reply,
When the world was just as fair,
And as distant as the sky.
When the marvels that we dreamed
Waited for our waking looks,
When our fairy-fables seemed
Truer than our lesson-books;
When for all who well had striven,
Sweet the ready garlands grew,
And when sleeping, unforgiven,
Was what nobody could do.
We were children when we feared
Only darkness, never light,
For our troubles disappeared
Always, if they came in sight;
When our love was like our breath,
Ceaseless, natural, unperceived;
When we wondered about death
As a thing to be believed;
When we drew a severing line,
Good from evil, night from day,
On the one side, all divine;
On the other — look away!
When our wrath was swift and sure,
Just because we seemed to know
Nothing wrong could touch the pure,
And our loved ones all were so.
When all weariness of life
Was but waiting for a bliss,
When all bitterness and strife
Could be finished with a kiss;
When all spoken words were meant,
When no promises could break,
When all storms were only sent
For the pretty rainbow’s sake.
Over all the lovely scene
Necessary darkness flowed,
Now the years that intervene
Hide that once familiar road.
We remember all the way —
Oh, it was so fair, so dear!
Where it led we cannot say;
But we know it led not here.
For the labour wins no crown,
And the strong hope dies in pain,
And the twilight settles down,
And love comforts us in vain.
We have watered lifeless plants,
Falsehood fills the common air,
Every footstep disenchants,
There is parting everywhere.
Forest-doors are full of night;
Enter, and the path shall wind
As a string of tender light,
As a living wreath untwined;
Nature wastes no drop of dew,
Past the dying root it flows;
What you did you never knew,
Till there sprang a sudden rose.
Every branch breaks out in song
(All that birds say must be true),
Right grows in the heart of wrong -
Yours the task to let it through!
Every gathered leaf decays;
Wait for one immortal wreath!
What is love with life that plays
To the love that lives in death?
Twilight grows so sweet and clear,
We can tell that morn is nigh,
And our dead have come as near
As our childhood’s happy sky.
Did the darkness only seem?
Was it all our own false will?
Was our life a little dream?
Father, are we children still?