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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348171" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Child's Music Lesson</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?<br>Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?<br>Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall!<br>Each note to me is like a golden glow;<br>Each broken cadence like a mourning call;<br>Nay, clear and smooth I would not have you go,<br>Soft little hands, upon the curtained threshold set<br>Of this long life of labour, and unrestful fret.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Soft sunlight flickers on the checkered green:<br>Warm winds are stirring round my dreaming seat:<br>Among the yellow pumpkin blooms, that lean<br>Their crumpled rims beneath the heavy heat,<br>The striped bees in lazy labour glean<br>From bell to bell with golden-feathered feet;<br>Yet even here the voices of hard life go by;<br>Outside, the city strains with its eternal cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, as I sit-the sunlight on my face,<br>And shadows of green leaves upon mine eyes-<br>My heart, a garden in a hidden place,<br>Is full of folded buds of memories.<br>Stray hither then with all your old time grace,<br>Child-voices, trembling from the uncertain keys;<br>Play on, ye little fingers, touch the settled gloom,<br>And quickly, one by one, my waiting buds will bloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah me, I may not set my feet again<br>In any part of that old garden dear,<br>Or pluck one widening blossom, for my pain;<br>But only at the wicket gaze I hear:<br>Old scents creep into mine inactive brain,<br>Smooth scents of things, I may not come anear;<br>I see, far off, old beaten pathways they adorn;<br>I cannot feel with hands the blossom of the thorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Toil on, sweet hands; once more I see the child;<br>The little child, that was myself, appears,<br>And all the old time beauties, undefiled,<br>Shine back to me across the opening years,<br>Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild,<br>Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears,<br>Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems,<br>With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Play on into the golden sunshine so,<br>Sweeter than all great artists' labouring:<br>I too was like you once, an age ago:<br>God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bring<br>Quiet gliding ghosts to me of joy and woe,<br>No certain things at all that thrill or sting,<br>But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright,<br>No joy or aching pain; but only dim delight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Archibald+Lampman">Archibald Lampman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348171" data-title="The Child's Music Lesson de Archibald Lampman" data-description="Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?
Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?
Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall!
Each note to me is like a golden glow;
Each broken cadence like a mourning call;
Nay, clear and smooth I would no..."></div>
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