Again doth childlike rapture bring.
It is the children’s hour,
Sing on, ye children, sing.
Ye cradle our lost dreams anew,
Ye make love’s echoes ceaseless sound,
And, if for some the stretching yew
O’erguards a tiny daisied mound,
They have but laid their treasures where
God’s angels tread with sacred feet;
They have but Heavenward sent a prayer