The frowns and tears of childish grief may know,
And the love-language of the heart give place
To the wild clamor of a baby's woe.
The days of youth are joyful, in their way;
Bare feet tread lightly, and their steps are gay.
Parental kindness grades the early path,
And shields it from the storm-king's dreaded wrath.
But there are thorns that prick the infant flesh,
And bid the youthful eyes to flow afresh,
Thorns that maturer nerves would never feel,