Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun,
Hoped in heaven hereafter;
Soft and strong and loud and light,
Very sound of very light
Heard from morning's rosiest height,
When the soul of all delight
Fills a child's clear laughter.

Golden bells of welcome rolled
Never forth such notes, nor told
Hours so blithe in tones so bold,
As the radiant mouth of gold
Here that rings forth heaven.
If the golden-crested wren
Were a nightingale--why, then,
Something seen and heard of men
Might be half as sweet as when
Laughs a child of seven.




A CHILD'S THANKS


How low soe'er men rank us,
How high soe'er we win,
The children far above us
Dwell, and they deign to love us,