In the love-threaded dance their steps are not tired
As they weave them to tunes by affection inspired.
The children are shouting and romping in throngs,
Like anthems seem holy their merriest songs;
The wayfarer pauses in crossing the stile,
And lists in a dream to their voices awhile:
The voices of children a stranger may win,
Through them are our hearts with the angels akin.
’Twas so on the day she ascended the throne;
We live o’er again the days that are gone.