We are not lovers, you and I,
Upon this sunny lane,
But children who have never known
Love's joy or pain.
The trees we pass, the summer brook,
The bird that o'er us darts--
We do not know 'tis they that thrill
Our childish hearts.
The earth-things have no name for us,
The ploughing means no more
Than that they like to walk the fields
Who plough them o'er.
The road, the wood, the heaven, the hills
Are not a World to-day--
But just a place God's made for us
In which to play.
Upon this sunny lane,
But children who have never known
Love's joy or pain.
The trees we pass, the summer brook,
The bird that o'er us darts--
We do not know 'tis they that thrill
Our childish hearts.
The earth-things have no name for us,
The ploughing means no more
Than that they like to walk the fields
Who plough them o'er.
The road, the wood, the heaven, the hills
Are not a World to-day--
But just a place God's made for us
In which to play.
