English, asked by lodhikapil549, 3 months ago

in your hearts the birds and sunshine​

Answers

Answered by jkmsss2010
1

Answer:

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Explanation:

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Answered by hkofficial654
1

Explanation:

Children

Birds of Passage 1858

Flight the First

Birds of Passage

Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought

Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought

The Ladder of St. Augustine

The Phantom Ship

The Warden of the Cinque Ports

Haunted Houses

In the Churchyard at Cambridge

The Emperor's Bird's-Nest

The Two Angels

Daylight and Moonlight

The Jewish Cemetery at Newport

Oliver Basselin

Victor Galbraith

My Lost Youth

The Ropewalk

The Golden Mile-Stone

Catawba Wine

Santa Filomena

The Discoverer of the North Cape

Daybreak

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz

Children

Sandalphon

Flight the Second

The Children's Hour

Enceladus

The Cumberland

Snow-Flakes

A Day of Sunshine

Something Left Undone

Weariness

Flight the Third

Fata Morgana

The Haunted Chamber

The Meeting

Vox Populi

The Castle-Builder

Changed

The Challenge

The Brook and the Wave

Aftermath

Come to me, O ye children!

For I hear you at your play,

And the questions that perplexed me

Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,

That look towards the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows

And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,

But in mine is the wind of Autumn

And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us

If the children were no more?

We should dread the desert behind us

Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,

With light and air for food,

Ere their sweet and tender juices

Have been hardened into wood,--

That to the world are children;

Through them it feels the glow

Of a brighter and sunnier climate

Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing

In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,

And the wisdom of our books,

When compared with your caresses,

And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads

That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

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