We live in our own world, <br />A world that is too small <br />For you to stoop and enter <br />Even on hands and knees, <br />The adult subterfuge. <br />And though you probe and pry <br />With analytic eye, <br />And eavesdrop all our talk <br />With an amused look, <br />You cannot find the centre <br />Where we dance, where we play, <br />Where life is still asleep <br />Under the closed flower, <br />Under the smooth shell <br />Of eggs in the cupped nest <br />That mock the faded blue <br />Of your remoter heaven. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Ronald Stuart Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/children-s-song/
