When he was only nine months old, <br />And plump and round and pink of cheek, <br />A joy to tickle and to hold, <br />Before he'd even learned to speak, <br />His gentle mother used to say: <br />'It is too bad that he must grow. <br />If I could only have my way <br />His baby ways we'd always know.' <br /> <br />And then the year was turned, and he <br />Began to toddle round the floor <br />And name the things that he could see <br />And soil the dresses that he wore. <br />Then many a night she whispered low: <br />'Our baby now is such a joy <br />I hate to think that he must grow <br />To be a wild and heedless boy.' <br /> <br />But on he went and sweeter grew, <br />And then his mother, I recall, <br />Wished she could keep him always two, <br />For that's the finest age of all. <br />She thought the selfsame thing at three, <br />And now that he is four, she sighs <br />To think he cannot always be <br />The youngster with the laughing eyes. <br /> <br />Oh, little boy, my wish is not <br />Always to keep you four years old. <br />Each night I stand beside your cot <br />And think of what the years may hold; <br />And looking down on you I pray <br />That when we've lost our baby small, <br />The mother of our man will say <br />'This is the finest age of all.'<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-finest-age/
