 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
51
Our Children
We watched our children at their happy playAmongst old gnarlèd orchard-trunks low bent
By gales, that years ago their force had spent
On stems then young and weak, now stiff and grey:
Traces are borne by those bowed trees to-day
Of winds, long Summers since, that singing went
Through leaf and blossom, or the ripe fruit sent
Rolling in dewy grass—and passed away.
Thus causes vanish, their results remaining—
To winds long lulled those orchard-trees still bend;
Those children from our words and ways are gaining
That which will stir and sway them to life's end—
Traces they still will show of childhood's training,
When with the fading Past our memories blend.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |