This child is not mine as the first was; I cannot sing it to rest; I cannot lift it up fatherly, And bless it upon my breast. Yet it lies in my little one's cradle, And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she 's gone to Transfigures its golden hair.
They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin.
Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold.
Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.
Children are God's Apostles, sent forth, day by day, to preach of love, and hope, and peace.